𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟷𝟺. 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎

I am back from the dead. Thank you for almost 1k followers and for over 100k reads. I honestly can't wrap my little brain around any of it. 

Dark content ahead! Talk of past parental abuse. Talk of alcoholism. Talk of past self-harm. Talk of suicidal thoughts. Talk of suicidal attempts. Talk of abusive romantic relationships.
Proceed with caution.

Hard topics will come up within this fic both now and in the future. Keep this in mind. None of this is meant to be glorified at all. It is intended to be real, just like the rest of my book. Again, please be cautious if you choose to proceed.

I will be straightforward and admit that there are personal pieces of my life spread throughout this chapter. Y/N's journal entries and certain events within are extremely personal to me. Please be kind. I do read comments lmfao.

___

"Stay?" You blink slowly as your brain processes Jean's words to you. "You want me to stay?"

Jean stares at you for a second; his face befuddled like he can't believe he's actually doing this. His words then flatly greet your ear. "It's just a suggestion, Y/N. It would be easier, right? Since I'm going with you tomorrow."

A large amount of saliva gathers on your tongue and settles; you swallow it harshly. "You aren't gonna kick me out of your bed in the middle of the night?" Your head tilts slowly to the side, gaze on him remaining firm. "Heard that's sorta what you're known for."

Jean drags out one long blink, patently unfazed that you know this. "Who said you're gonna be sleeping in the same bed as me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're totally right." Your head aligns straight again as a small laugh passes through your lips. "Connie's bed is available for me to take when he gets home, isn't it?"

He racks his long fingers back through his mullet, smoothing out any crevices. "Why? Is that the selling point or some shit?"

"Exactly," you shoot him a smile so vast that your cheeks meet your eyes, proudly knowing you're pushing all the wrong buttons. "You should have just started with that. I would have said yes to your offer right off the bat."

Jean's eyes roll before locking with yours again, both of his palms running down the length of his thighs to rest on his bent knees. "You think you're funny?"

Your nose scrunches up. "You don't?"

His mouth twitches, and a smile breaks through, allowing a low chuckle to spill through the walls of his lips. It starts deep within his chest and works its way out, offering a chance for the tenacity that lives in his face to break in half.

You haven't really heard him laugh before now.

It's fairly quiet mixed in with the white noise of the night, but it's enough to warm you from the inside out. The air outdoors is cool, but the temperature around you seems to skyrocket as his low laughter encompasses you like a blanket of solace.

You take a moment to relish in the sound, letting it travel through your ears and settle comfortably into the structure of your bones.

You wish it would last longer, that Jean would laugh more often, that he would let happiness, in general, be present in his life for more than just a passing glance.

The more time you spend with him, the sadder you are starting to feel seeing him be down all the time, especially now knowing where his sorrow sources from.

After a few moments of silence, letting the deep sound of him sweep through the crisp air, you speak again, the smile on your face remaining bright. "Well, I guess that answers my question, now doesn't it?"

His faint laughter slowly diminishes into nothing, and his perfectly structured face sets itself back into its standard grave expression. Looking at him, you already find yourself missing his laughter.

"Jesus fuck. You're so damn annoying, Y/N, you know that?" Jean exhales sharply, his lips now set stagnant and firm. "This is exactly why I'm taking the couch."

"Is that the real reason, or do you just not trust yourself enough that you'll be able to keep your hands off me?" You tease him, twisting one of the strings to the sweatshirt around your index finger around and around. "Do I tempt you that much?"

A noise erupts from the back of Jean's throat, which signifies that he's fed up. "Look at you, feeding into your own little ego."

You let the string of his baseball sweatshirt fall back into place on your chest, your hand settling down into your lap. "Yeah, and who do you think I learned it from?" 

Jean's pink lips twitch as he turns away from you. He looks like he could laugh again, but he fights it off before it can rip through. "Fuck," he mumbles deeply under his breath as the center of his palm runs down his sharp, scruffed jawline before dropping down into his lap. "You know, I've never met someone before who ruins my highs as much as you do."

You adjust yourself in your seat. "If that's true, then why do you like smoking with me so much?"

His focus remains straight ahead, looking at something far off in the distance. "You just somehow happen to be around me whenever I wanna get high," he attempts to claim placidly.

"Lucky you." Tilting your head up to the sky, you see the clouds above begin to roll in, ridding the night of any clearness that once was. "Looks like the clouds are back."

Jean's head shifts upward to see what you do. Once his focus sets, his breath leaves his lungs in a spiral. "Never fails."

The two of you watch the thick dark clouds as they float in toward the city of Paradis for a few beats, and then he says, "We should probably head in before the rain starts. I mean... unless you like getting wet."

Your chest shakes with soft laughter, your eyes shifting from the clouds over to him. "I do, just not in a way that's caused by rain."

This gets his attention. His head snaps to you desperately quick, and he meets your gaze, lips pressed tightly together. "No? Caused by what then?"

You bat your eyes, "women."

Jean's tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "I guess I should have seen that one coming." He gathers his RAW tray full of papers and the other items from your small smoke session. "Did you have shit weather like this in Stohess?" He asks as he stands.

"No. Stohess isn't anything like it is here." With your hands pressed into the cold metal arms of the chair, you push yourself to your feet, "from the weather to the people, it's all just sort of... different."

He steps around you. "Do you mean that in a good way or bad?"

You could almost laugh at his question. "Definitely in a good way. The difference is night and day, honestly. You'll see what I mean tomorrow. Stohess is just a shithole where everything that can go bad somehow goes worse."

"Sounds like shit," Jean says plainly as he steps through the sliding glassdoor back into his room, and you follow in after. "No wonder you don't wanna go back."

Yeah. You have no fucking idea.

Jean puts all of his belongings back into their correct place, and the two of you make your way into the central area of his apartment to clean up the table where you had spent the previous hours studying.

"So, do you feel like studying helped you at all?" You ask him as you gather the papers and notebooks strewn out across the dining room table and begin to organize them.

Jean is standing in the kitchen at the counter nearest to the fridge, refilling glasses of water for you and him. "I guess," he sounds indifferent to your question as his shoulders lift into a shrug.

"If you weren't drawing almost the entire time, you could give me a more confident answer, and I wouldn't be feeling like I wasted two hours of my life for nothing," You flip shut the notebook filled with all the doodles he made while you were trying to teach him.

"Don't worry. You didn't waste your time." Jean walks over to the fridge and puts the Brita water pitched back into the place he pulled it from. "I actually do feel like I accomplished something," he answers with no further elaboration as he closes the fridge door.

"Which is?" As you reply, you keep your focus down, stuffing all the gathered study items into your backpack.

"Surviving being around you for as long as I have," he says. "I swear you're like my own personal little annoying devil I can't get rid of. It's to the point where I feel like I need to get on my knees and start praying or some shit to try and get you off my damn back."

"By all means," you disseminate as your body shifts to face him. "I love watching men kneel before me."

"For the love of fucking God." Jean walks over to you with an extended arm, offering you the refilled glass of ice-cold water. "I wanna kill you."

A smile slowly creeps onto your lips tauntingly, "God, Jean, all this talk about murdering me and strangling me, but nothing ever gets done," you extend your arm out, his fingers brushing against yours as you take the glass. "I'm just waiting for you to rip my heart out, but it seems you might all talk."

"Don't do that, Y/N." His hand stays there for a few moments, his skin scorching yours as his eyes lock in with yours. "Don't tempt me," he warns with a low voice set in his chest.

"Why not?" You say, as your eyes soften, "It's not like you'd do it anyway. You'd miss me too much."

"I wouldn't," he claims, his hands stuffing themselves into his pockets. "What I do miss, though, is my life before I met you."

You take a small sip of your water and swallow. "Give your ass a break, Jean," you bite back, "stop talking out of it so damn much."

He makes sure you see him roll his eyes before he shifts his weight and turns toward the kitchen. "How about I just stop talking to you instead?"

You walk into the living room. "Okay, dramatic ass," you sigh as you sit on the couch, placing your water glass onto the coffee table. "That's fine with me. I've been waiting for this to happen since I met you."

Jean doesn't reply. He decides to go through with his threat and lets the silence hang, and with your pliant stubbornness, you don't fight to break it either.

He is standing in the kitchen, resting his lower spine on the counter's edge, drinking his water, while you are sitting on the couch sipping on yours.

The shared quiet doesn't last long, a couple of minutes at most. Drops of rain begin to fall against the windowpane to the right of the living room when Jean loses the quiet game and speaks to you again. "Have you eaten today?"

You chuckle to yourself. "That silent treatment lasted about two seconds." You set the glass of water down on the coffee table and shift your head to look at him. "You don't last very long, do you?"

"Nah, I do. But only when it matters," Jean pushes his weight off the counter and walks into the living room. "Now answer my question," he demands as he passes in front of you to get to the open spot on the couch.

"Earlier this morning," you tell him, your head following his movement as he walks. "Sash made me a bagel and coffee when I woke up."

Jean is next to you now, plopping himself down on the couch to your right, a little closer to you than you expected him to land. "And what about since then?"

The heat of his body is emanating from him, warmth sinking into your skin, making his presence obnoxiously known to you. You ignore the slight level of comfort you feel and shake your head. "Uh, just a protein bar on my break at work and the pocky you gave me."

Jean's head rolls before he cranes it to the left to look at you. "Come on, Y/N. You gotta eat." He pulls out his phone from his pocket, "I'm gonna order some pizza. What kind do you want?"

You lean back into the cushions and shrug, indifferent. "I'm not that picky. I'll honestly eat whatever."

Jean spins his phone around between his long fingers. "That's not what I asked. I asked what kind of pizza you want."

Your hunger has grown significantly since smoking, and pizza sounds like the one true answer to all your cravings. "Pepperoni," you reply him softly, "If that's okay with you."

He hums and unlocks his phone. "Alright, I'll order it and get it delivered."

"Let me know how much it is. I can Venmo you for half," you offer.

With Jean's focus drawn downward, his fingers work against the bright white screen as he makes the desired selections for his order. "Don't worry about it, Y/N. I got it."

Your eyebrows raise for a moment before settling back down, you open your mouth to try and fight him, but Jean interrupts before your voice can push through your throat.

"I'm not taking any of your money, so don't even try to argue with me about it." His head moves in your direction; he's now looking at you with accusing eyes.

You firmly clamp your lips shut. "How do you even know that's what I was gonna say?"

His eyebrows furrow as one. "Are you actually gonna sit there right now and try to play it off like you weren't?"

You throw up a dismissive hand in the air. "Fine. I was. I just don't like when people pay for me."

"Well, what a damn shame, huh?" He turns his attention back to his phone and finishes placing the order. "I'm serious. Pay me a cent, and I'll be pissed."

You blink. "You're always pissed. What difference does it make?"

"Only when you're around," he tells you monotonously. "Just let me do this, alright?"

"Yeah, alright." You sigh softly, not wanting to argue with his kind gesture. "Thank you."

He nods once. Locking his phone, he stuffs it into his pocket and sinks his back into the couch. "Pizza with being here in thirty."

The two of you share small talk to pass the time, not about anything important, mainly just challenging the other on who can get on the other's nerves more.

You won, of course.

Finally, after a little more than the estimated time you were given, the pizza arrives.

You remain seated as Jean answers the door. From behind, you hear him mutter thanks and keep the change before the door clicks shut.

Jean appears in your view again. With his hands full, he walks into the kitchen to grab a set of white plates from the cupboard above the sink. "Wanna watch something?" He asks, carrying the pizza box with the dishes stacked on the couch.

You hum, lifting an eyebrow. "Do I get to pick?"

"Depends." Jean sets the pizza box down on the coffee table in the center and slumps himself down on the couch where he was before, just as close, if not more. "Can I trust you with something like this, or do you have a shit taste?"

You let your legs stretch out in front of you, palms pressing into the couch's cushions on either side of your thighs. "That's a contradictory question, Jean. We literally have the same favorite anime. If I have shit taste, that means you do too."

"Fair," he admits with a shrug, "Depressed might be a better word for it."

You let out a small laugh at his subtle joke because it's true; anyone who has Banana Fish as their favorite anime has got to be a little messed up in one way or another. "Look at that, something the two of us can actually agree on."

"Who would have ever fucking thought," Jean remarks as he opens the pizza box lid with his right and hands you the remote to the television with his left. "Here, put on what you want."

You find Crunchyroll on the home screen and open the app, lighting the television up bright orange.

"How many pieces of pizza do you want?" He asks, holding one of the plates in his hand.

"Two, please," you answer kindly as you type in the desired show you want into the search bar.

Jean's focus shifts to reading the title on the screen as the words form. "Fruits Basket?" he grabs a couple of slices from the pizza box and tosses them onto the plate. "What the hell is that?" He questions, handing the plated food to you.

You accept and place it on your lap. "It's easily the best romance anime of all time."

"Romance?" Jean's jaw ticks, face twisting with apathy. "I'm not watching this cheesy shit."

You take a small bite of one of the slices of pizza, the heat coating your tongue as you chew and swallow. "You and I both know you're secretly romantic deep down somewhere. Just stop being so grumpy about everything all the time and let it happen."

He irritably shakes his head, adjusting himself on the couch, his plate now filled with slices of pizza as well. "You know what? Go ahead. Let's watch your little show. I'm not even going to try to fight you on this."

You flip the remote around in your hand repeatedly. "Why not? Because you know that I would win, or because you can't say no to me?"

Jean's legs man spread, his knee now pressing lightly into the outside of your thigh. "Nah. I can definitely say no to you."

"Yeah?" You blink in his direction, keeping your leg still, the same way you always do whenever this accidentally happens. "Say it then, Jean."

Jean's gaze meets yours. His eyes slightly widened with shock from your demand. "What?"

"Say it," you repeat with a soft smile this time. "Tell me no."

His eyes travel across your face, studying every inch like he has something to learn before he blinks away, returning his focus to the television. "Shut up, Y/N, and just play your damn show. You piss me the fuck off."

"Good. It's payback because you piss me the fuck off too." You press the play button on the remote, and the first episode begins to play.

An hour has passed now. A few episodes have been watched, and the pizza is wiped clean from both of your plates. Only trails of grease on the white ceramic surface remain.

Fruits Basket's closing theme begins to play, and you hit pause. "So, what do you think so far? Pretty good, huh?" Leaning forward, you close the lid of the more than halfway-eaten pizza box.

Jean stretches out his body, legs straightening out in front of him, the side of his thigh still touching yours. "It's alright."

You scoff, pushing your spine back into the couch. "Seriously, Jean, is there anything in your life that you find better than just alright?"

"Yeah, actually." He admits with a tense swallow. "There is."

"Oh?" Your eyebrows pull together, creating a crease of curiosity on your forehead. "How many?"

Jean stares at you for a few seconds, then he blinks. "One," he says with a low, steady voice. "Just one."

Your eyes widen slightly. "Yeah? What is it?" You find yourself extremely curious. You just expected his answer to be one quick depressing no.

He presses his lips together in a tight thin line. "I would tell you, Y/N, but I already used up my verity of the day, so I guess you just gotta wait."

"Good thing I'm an extremely patient person," You smile softly. "Don't think I'll forget about this conversation."

"I know you won't." Jean's head turns away from you, and he signals with his chin toward the television. "Seriously though, it's a good anime. Better than I was expecting it to be."

"See? I told you it was good. I'm glad you like it," you admit to him.

"Kyo's a stubborn ass, though." Jean voices, his jaw slacked. "He's in a shitty mood all the time."

Your lips twist into a smirk. "I mean, it kinda sounds a lot like someone, don't you think?"

"No idea what you're talking about," Jean hurries to deny it, knowing what you're getting at. "One more episode, then we'll call it a night."

You smile, glad to know that he is actually interested in the show. "Sounds good to me." You press play on the remote, and the intro of the next episode begins.

After the episode ends, the two of you clean up and move out of the living room to get ready for bed.

Standing in the narrow hall, Jean grabs you a clean towel and a spare toothbrush to use out of one of the storage cabinets. Since it's not uncommon for this group to crash at each other's places time and again, Connie and Jean keep extra spares of things if they're ever needed.

With an extended arm, he offers these items out to you. "You can shower first. I think there's a pair of sweats or something Sasha left here last time she crashed when she got too high with Connie to drive home. I'll see if I can find them, and I'll put them in my room for you to change into when you get out."

Taking his kind offer, you thank him before making your way to the restroom to wash off the day.

After your shower, you dry yourself off and wrap the towel tightly around your body.

While brushing your teeth, you down look at the palm of your hand to see that the sunflower Jean drew has mostly faded from the use of hot water and soap. There are only a few small areas where the ink still faintly remains.

You let out a small sigh as you move your fingers around, tracing what's left of it with your fingertips. You knew it wouldn't last forever, but it still makes you somewhat sad that it has gone so quickly.

Once finished in the bathroom, you open the door to access the hallway and step out. You turn to head toward Jean's room to get changed, but he is coming out at the same time, making his way into the hallway. His eyes fall right on you.

Great fucking timing.

Your eyes widen at his unexpected presence as you quickly suck in a whiff of air, remembering you're in nothing but a towel.

You feel somewhat unnerved, but Jean is the one who looks like he has just seen his life flash before his eyes.

His entire existence has frozen over solid; his mouth slightly gaped open. "I. I uh," he spews, a light pink tone coloring the cheeks so faint you almost swear you're making it up in your mind.

Is he flustered?

He clears his throat before starting over. "I found the... the shorts Sasha left here when she crashed a while back. They're on, uh, my bed -" He's staring at you, eyes widened and unblinking, still struggling to get the words out, "if you want them."

You study his face, and you can see with how sharp his jawline is that he's biting down harshly on his teeth. You let out a small sigh, "You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as I have heard you do, you sure look real nervous right now."

You can tell he's internal fighting himself, trying to look away but can't. "I-" His teeth grit further into each other, his whole body now tense. "You-"

His words are betraying him like no other right now.

You grab onto the towel tighter, ensuring it remains secure. "What?" The corner of your mouth lifts, forcing confidence, even though your heart is beating almost out of your chest. "Picturing what I look like under the towel? You're usually pretty hard to read, Jean, but your face is speaking for itself right now."

His eyes blink. Finally, getting a grip on himself, Jean forces his once nervous face to go smug, "Why? If I say yes, you'll show me?"

He was stuttering over his own words a second ago, now trying to pull it off with his well-known cockiness.

A for effort, Jean.

"You wish," You huff out an airy laugh. "You can just ask Connie, though. He knows what's under here," you jab, altering your face to match his. "A quick fuck, remember?"

His lips fall from a smirk into a harsh line. "Jesus Christ. I fucking hate you." Jean's head rolls with irritation before he shakes it out harshly. "I'm taking a shower."

"Have fun." Your nose scrunches as you walk past him and head into his room. "By the way, I fucking hate you too," you say before shutting the door behind you.

While Jean is in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, you get dressed in the pair of Sasha's shorts he left for you and put back on the baseball sweatshirt that he let you borrow earlier.

To your surprise, he had already turned down his bed, ready for you to get into.

You grab your book out of your backpack and walk over to his bed. You slide underneath the covers and lie your tired body back on his firmly cushioned pillow.

His bed is full of the scent of him, and you're devoured whole. It's coming from his pillows, blankets, and the mattress itself, overpowering but also weak in some twisted way.

You breathe deeply and crack open If We Were Villains. Pulling the blanket up to your waist, you begin to read to distract yourself from the fact that the smell of him is enveloping your entire body.

After reading two chapters, you hear the door push open. "Reading again?" Jean's voice rushes through the air, breaking the world that the words on paper were building inside your head. "How far are you now?"

Your eyes move from the off-white pages held in your hand and blink up to see Jean making his way into his room, closing the door behind him.

He is wearing a pair of black sweat shorts, the length meeting a little bit above the knee, a white string tied in front at the waistband with a plain white T-shirt that defines every muscle he has. His mullet is still damp with water. The parts of his legs that you can see are firm and muscular, his arms with their standard veins and marks.

He's letting the scars show around you again.

You can smell his cleanliness from where you are, a mix of his shampoo and body wash, coconut and vanilla, and you just about sink into the mattress beneath you.

You hate the fact that you are starting to recognize all these different details about him, both big and small.

Forcefully, you look away and bring your gaze back to the words of your book before he can mark it as staring even though you deservingly were. "Yeah. I'm more than halfway now."

"When did you start it?" He asks, making his way over to his desk.

"Today," you say, bringing the book down to your lap for it to rest.

Jean's head snaps over to you, shock covering his face. "I knew you were a reader Y/N but Jesus."

You raise an eyebrow. "Impressed?"

"Low key, yeah," he confesses to you with a sharp nod. "You said it's becoming one of your favorites?"

You pause. There is a part of you that is surprised that he remembers you telling him this earlier. You were just rambling on about the book, not thinking he was actually listening to any of what you were saying, but it seems he was.

You swallow. "I think so, but I can't say for sure yet. I have to finish it, and then I can sort through my thoughts and rank it."

Jean's eyes widen slightly. "Rank it? What do you mean?"

You close the book, leaving your thumb on the page you're reading to keep your place. "Yeah, I have this list of my all-time favorite books where I rank them from one to ten with my thoughts and notes about what stood out to me about it the most, my favorite scenes, and stuff like that." You pause and shake your head, realizing how ridiculous you sound as your word rebound back into your ear, "it honestly sounds kinda stupid now that I'm saying it out loud."

Jean shakes his head faintly. "Not stupid." He looks at you for a moment and then blinks, "Mind sharing the list?"

Your eyes peel wide, completely thrown off by his request. "You want the list of my favorite books?" You try not to sound too excited about it, but there is an immense rush of happiness that takes flight inside of you.

The last person who asked you about your favorite books was Lucas. Your brother despised reading, but he knew how much it meant to you, and knowing that your mother was no longer around to talk about books anymore, he would try to ask you about your current reads when he could. Even when he wasn't doing well, he would still try to make an effort.

It's been a while since then. You have honestly missed talking to somebody about your stupid little hobby.

"Yeah, I'm curious." Jean shrugs cooly, not knowing how much this actually means to you. "Maybe there's a book on there that will convince me to start reading again."

You pause for a moment, fingers moving anxiously against the surface of your book. "Yeah, okay, sure. I'll give it to you."

He hums quietly before changing the subject. "Are you gonna stay up and read for a while?" He asks, and you nod as your response. "Alright," he replies. "I gotta work on a dumbass art assignment. Are you good if I work in here?"

"You're asking me like this isn't your room," You softly laugh, "I don't mind. Or I can take the couch if you want me to?"

"You're fine where you are." Jean rotates his back away from you and toward his desk. "Just be quiet and read your book."

"Don't have to tell me twice," you say, cracking open your book again. You begin to read where you last left off while he begins to work.

___

About an hour or so has passed, and you have finally found the willpower to put your book down and call it a night.

Jean is sitting at his desk, his back facing you, still hard at work on his assignment while you are now teetering on the edge of sleep, heavy eyes shutting, craving rest.

You are milliseconds away from your body, shutting down and meeting complete darkness, when an abrupt sound yanks you back into the current moment.

"Shit," Jean hisses under his breath as you hear him rummage around. "Damn ink."

Your eyes shoot open, trying to make sense of the small amount of commotion that has filled the once quiet room. It takes a few seconds for your vision to adjust from the darkness of your eyelids to the dim light coming from the lamp resting in the corner of Jean's desk.

Once your gaze focuses, you realize that he spilled one of his art supplies on his white shirt. You burry your head deeper into the semi-hard pillow as you watch Jean pull the white shirt off over his head from his seated position, exposing his entire back to you.

Immediately, air catches at the back of your throat at the sight of what has been unveiled.

You should look away, close your eyes back up, and try to find sleep again; it's the right thing to do, the most respectful, but you can't.

Your eyes are clung like ivy to his backside. However, it's not because of the definition of every muscle that tenses with every movement he makes; instead, it's because his skin is scarred in the same ways his arms are.

His entire back has been torn to shreds, evidence of his skin stitching itself back together over time. It's uneven, ragged, mangled with physical pain that once consumed him whole.

With your glued eyes still searching him, they fall onto the small tattoo on the left side of his spin—a black number seven.

Marco's retired number.

[ A huge shout out to one of my amazing readers, Gia, for making this beautiful fan art for this chapter. They went above and beyond, including sticky notes and other additional details. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I love you.]

__

"Your tattoo." Your words slip, barely above a whisper. Your mouth is acting with a mind of its very own.

Fuck. Bite your damn tongue, Y/N. You damn idiot.

You hope he didn't hear you, that it was said quiet enough for it not to shift and reach him, but unfortunately, it did.

Jean's body stiffens uncomfortably before you. Slowly, he turns over his shoulder, eyes meeting your face in the low light. "Shit. I thought you were asleep."

Your throat begins to ache with guilt for the accidental slip of your tongue. "I'm sorry, I... " you pull the blankets up to your chin, hands buried inside the warmth. "Almost."

Jean reaches over his front side, his right hand grabbing onto the left side of his back, where his tattoo has dyed his scarred skin with something of great significance.

He digs his fingernails into his skin, so deep you know he can feel the structure of his bones. He says nothing at first, his grip only deepening, more and more like he is trying to grab ahold of something that isn't there, something that won't ever be there.

The grasp of his fingers soon releases, and his words come in a painful manner. He pauses, trying to push his voice out. "It's my lucky number," he says to you, and your throat goes tight.

Jean pushes himself out of the seat. He keeps his back to you, not letting you see his front side, and goes over to the closet to grab a clean shirt, throwing the dirty one into his hamper.

"I like it. It's nice," is all you let yourself say.

Moments of silence pass through his room, and then he says, "you should try to go to sleep. It's late." He grabs a plain grey shirt off its hanger and quickly slips it on, covering his scars and tattoo back up again.

You know far better than to ask any questions or to say anything more about it. Your thoughts taking control of your tongue were far enough.

Jean is made of armor, impenetrable and protective. Who are you to try and destroy that because of your selfish curiosity about him?

So you choose to leave it at that. "Okay." You breathe out softly as you adjust your body into a more comfortable position. "Goodnight, Jean."

"Yeah," Jean says lowly as he makes his way back to his desk and sits down. "Goodnight. Y/N."

He returns to work, pen to paper, as your tired, heavy eyes close. There is the faint sound of scratching on the wood of his desk, thick raindrops heavily pattering against the glass behind his closed black curtains, and not much else.

Soon, sleep finds you with ease.

___

Jean's POV

Jean glances at the time on his phone. 3:30 am.

With the middle of his palms pressing into the edge of his desk, he lines his spine, stretching out his body that has grown tense from his time of working on his art. Once he feels his muscles give into the relief of relaxation, he leans his weight back toward his desk and snaps the cap back securely onto his pen, gently tossing it into the flat wooded surface.

The sound of heavy rain crashes against the glass of his sliding door. Random flashes of lightning slip through his dark curtains, and abrupt claps of thunder follow it, sending a shock through the earth.

The rain that consumed the night has now turned into a storm.

Jean turns his head over his shoulder, focusing on you, ensuring the loud sounds of nature haven't woken you.

His light brown eyes meet your slumbering body, the lamp on his desk hovering a dim light over you. Once he confirms you're still at rest, he forces his wandering eyes off of you.

Turning himself toward his desk, he shakes his head in incredulity as his thoughts begin to take off at top speed. He has never been good at stopping them, no matter how hard he seems to try. He pushes a deep exhale out as he sets his head into his palms, elbow pressing deep into the wood of his desk beneath him.

| now playing ... me ; the 1975 |
[ I suggest putting on the rain sound effect for this like in previous chapters for the full effect]

He honestly can't believe this situation right now, even more so how he can't find it in himself to mind it.

Jean's long list of strict rules is being bent, and this is something he swore he would never do for anyone. Yet, here he is, doing it for you anyway.

Jesus fucking Christ. This isn't fucking like him.

Having a girl in his bed is extremely odd for him, not only in the aspect of sex but even simply to sleep. He has banned it from his world that he has so severely fucked up.

During his hookups, it's all routined. Her hands are pressed against the wall, always facing away from him. If he does fuck in a bed, it will be in hers, still with her facing away from him. No matter the aspect, once they're finished, he either leaves or has her go. Staying longer than that is strictly forbidden.

The limitations that Jean has don't start and end there, but they even bleed into the actions of being touched and held even in the purest forms.

Hand-holding, falling asleep next to someone, being embraced by another person for an extended period of time. Those aren't things he allows to be present in his life, whether offering out those actions or accepting them from others.

He hates it. He can't fucking stand it.

It's an intimacy thing as twisted and backward as that might sound, but then again, his entire life is twisted and backward in ways he never wanted, so what difference does it make if his choices, much like this, are too?

It's not like he understands himself anyways.

His well rounded logic left him a long long time ago, along with everything else.

The way that he sees it is anyone can have sex. It doesn't have to have meaning; it can be driven strictly by pure lust, selfishness, and nothing more.

At least that's what he convinces himself. And if he says that to himself enough a mindset like that has to come true at some point or another.

That pureness, however, the goodness that comes from intertwining his fingers with someone else, pulling them close, listening for their heartbeat,
or letting them search for his isn't anything he deserves. He hates those actions but craves them all the same.

That desire to hold someone close, to offer that pure comfort, to be indulged in amenity, all require something more and more isn't something Jean has had for a long time.

How is he supposed to let innocent touch near his body that is full of so many sins?

These things also make him feel vulnerable, and showing any sort of vulnerability to anyone nowadays is a rarity for him.

Since his accident, he's been highly cautious about receiving and giving touch outside the realm of sex.

For instance, back at Sonic, when those girls that pulled him aside in the parking lot to talk to him soon began to touch him in an attempt to flirt, it took every ounce of his strength not to lose his shit right then and there.

They were too close, too personal, too much for him, but he stood there internally, fighting to play into it.

Why? Because he knew you were watching.

He still doesn't know exactly what he was trying to accomplish from that pathetic situation. All he knows is that once he connected the pieces of the puzzle that you and Eren went off somewhere together, a burning fire caught aflame in his chest, and he acted on the bitterness of that feeling without thinking twice about it.

It's stupid and immature, but it's the truth.

Your eyes were on him. He could feel them, sense them; he knew, so he stayed where he was. But the more they touched him, the more anxious he grew, and soon he couldn't play that part of pretending to be into their bullshit anymore. He had to get away before their flirtatious attempts of touch drove him all the way to hell, the way all physical touch always does.

Jean wasn't always this way when it came to despising physical touch. He actually grew up in a very supportive household full of love and affection. Being in close contact with people was something he was used to and comfortable with especially considering the fact it is his mother's love language.

This newfound hate seemed to have formed after his accident due to all the damage it caused him both physically and mentally.

There is only one time since coming out of his tragedy that he hasn't absolutely hated being innocently touched by someone, and it's during the instances in which he received it from you.

Jean first realized this at your apartment when the two of you were watching Demon Slayer with the group, and his shoulder and head were touching you as he sat near your feet after giving his space on the couch up.

This was the first time in he doesn't know how long that the feeling of the warmth of someone didn't make him want to tear clear out of his skin.

Touching you didn't drive him crazy it actually brought calmness over him, making all the willpower to attempt to move away from you the way he would if it were anyone else entirely illusive.

It made him feel like the weight of the world he had been carrying on his shoulders had been taken by you.

He was completely caught off guard by this, which is why he decided to further test the waters by making other gestures such as touching your face, putting eyedrops in your eyes, letting his leg rest against yours, or even when he took your hand to draw on it and gave you his in exchange.

Jean kept thinking to himself, maybe this time I will hate her touch, maybe this time I will want her to get away from me, maybe this time it will be the same as everyone else, but no matter how many times he experimented, the end result of the feeling your touch brought him always ended the same:

Calmness.

And this is something he hasn't felt in a long time.

He doesn't understand it. He really doesn't. None of what has been happening to him within these past couple of weeks since he met you makes any sense.

Most people always tend to push the limits he has set, but with you, there only seems to be an abyss of endlessness, and he can't figure out how or why that is.

What Jean does know, though, is that when it comes to you, everything he stands for, and everything he has forced himself to become throughout the past year, is getting messed up.

You are messing him up in simple ways and ways he didn't even know existed.

And the thing is, it's not like it started right now or today or even yesterday. What's so fucked about all this is that you crawled inside the most haunted parts of his brain when he saw you yards away on Titan Turf, in your oversized brown flannel, and you haven't left since.

If anything, you have only buried yourself deeper, gaining access to all the pieces he pushed off the edges of the earth, forcing them into extinction.

You won't fucking stop, and he doesn't know what the hell to do about it. This is not the way this was supposed to go, but it did, and it continues to, day after day.

Every good and pure part of you is slowly beginning to seep into every bad and tainted part of him, destroying the fourth wall that has engulfed his barely beating heart that he denounced to be indestructible.

Fuck. What the actual fuck?

Jean can feel his head pound against his skull, full of all the thoughts he has spent days fighting off but keeps plaintively failing,

He can't. He needs to think about something else.

Jean lifts his face from his palms, his hands falling onto his lap. Bringing his focus down to the sketch he has spent the past hours working on, he looks at it, the light of his lamp shining on a yellow tone over the paper.

His eyes shake back and forth quickly as he takes in the jagged lines where his hands have betrayed him yet again.

Even his own body hates him.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, disappointed in the outcome but even more disappointed in himself.

Jean's work is not at all what he envisioned when he started, but he's far too exhausted to spend any more time on it. Even if he did bother to try and fix it, he knows full well that any altercations made still wouldn't meet his standards, which would make it nothing but a stupid waste of time.

Displeasure in what he once took great pride in is what he is used to now. Constantly failing in every single area of his guilt-ridden life is all he knows.

Another day. Another failure. Another reason to hate himself just a little bit more.

Jean harshly shoves the paper across the desk, trying to get another piece of pathetically failed work away from him before it drives him straight into the ground beneath him.

He brings his left hand behind himself and tucks it under his clean grey shirt, meeting his back with his calloused touch. He runs his fingers over his skin, feeling the scars that have put dents in all of the confidence he pretends to have.

His entire being is marked with steadfast reminders of what he wishes he could obliterate not only from his mind but also from the minds of others.

He wants to forget. He wants everyone to forget.

Jean's teeth grind together as the feeling of uneven skin beneath his fingertips makes his stomach turn in turmoil remembering the shards of glass from the car that once stuck out of him in places they didn't belong that have created these serrated scars that live on his skin, unwelcome but permanent nonetheless.

He's so embarrassed you saw what you did when he took off his ink-spilled shirt. The only reason he removed it at that moment in time was that he thought you were asleep. If he knew you weren't, he would have let himself sit in the mess he accidentally made a while longer until he knew you were.

Jean doesn't care that you saw his tattoo of remembering his deceased friend; he cares more than you have witnessed these ugly everlasting imperfections of his firsthand.

The only one he now has remained successful in keeping hidden from you is the one that rests on the right side of his chest, right over where his heart lies, leading to the center.

Jean always tries so hard to keep his marks covered as often as possible, hiding his most hated parts away from the world, yet somehow, your eyes keep gaining access to them.

But even seeing all you have, you have never said a word about it. His arms, his back, the annoying tremor in his hands, you have always kept quiet, and he wishes he could thank you for that.

Jean yanks his hand out of his shirt, removing his touch from his back, not wanting to feel his immutable damage anymore; it's close to making him sick.

He needs to go to sleep.

He slowly pushes his weight, stands to his feet, and gathers his things, clearing his desk of his mess of art items. Quietly, he puts his belongings back into their place.

Once cleaned, he grabs a spare pillow and blanket inside his closet. He then turns off the lamp and sneaks across his hardwood floor to head out of his room and give you privacy as you rest, careful not to wake you.

He is about to twist the doorknob and step out of his room when your voice breaks the quiet from behind him.

"Lucas," you speak quietly in your sleep. "Please. Lucas."

Lucas? Who's Lucas?

"Lucas," Jean hears you call out desperately once again for someone who isn't there. "Please, Don't go." You sound pained, as though you could cry.

A nightmare?

The second this realization hits him, hesitance is no longer something that exists.

Jean rips his hand off the cold knob of his door and carries himself across his room over to you. He quickly turns his lamp back on, breaking the darkness.

You start to stir now, cries catching at the back of your throat with jumbled words he can't make out.

You're not far, steps away, but it still seems like he can't get to you quick enough. It feels as though the room is expanding, taunting him with obnoxious games of growing distance.

Finally, he reaches you. He sits at the edge of his bed, and he places his hands on both of your shoulders. "Y/N." He shakes you lightly, enough for you to feel but not enough in a way that he could risk scaring you. "Y/N."

He feels your body continue to twitch in fear beneath his touch as you distressingly try to run from whatever images your mind is cruelly painting clear enough for you to believe that it's real.

Jean knows this brutal soul-shredding fight far too well. This fear of being locked inside yourself with no way out. Tangled in your affliction as it tears at your heart until it's battered and bloody to the point where you swear it could almost be dead. Personal fears, the unspeakable ones, praying on you as if you are theirs to take.

You don't deserve this.

He wants to pull you out of your own hell.

He needs to set you free.

Jean tries again, raising his voice a trace, hoping it will reach your consciousness this time around. "Hey. Y/N." He shakes you slightly harder, sheer desperation now twisted into his actions. "You gotta wake up. Come on, Y/N. Wake up for me, please." With his hands placed on both sides of your shoulders, he squeezes just enough for his fingers to cave in to your tender flesh.

He only says please aloud once, but that single pleading word keeps replaying in his head repeatedly as his hands softly move you, trying as hard as he can to end this nightmare of yours.

Please let her wake up, he thinks.

Please let me help her, he thinks.

Please just... let me do something fucking right for once.

Beneath his firm hands, your body jolts itself awake with a fearful gasp, snapping that string between yourself and your night terror, bringing you back to the reality of this world—a sense of relief slamming over him at once.

Finally.

| now playing ... to build a home ; the cinematic orchestra |

Your eyes tear themselves open, and he watches as they shift around his room as you try to gather everything surrounding you, piece by piece. Your gaze falls on him, and he sees your mouth quiver, eyes sunken into the back of your head with both exhaustion and panic.

Ragged breaths. Weakened state. You're falling apart in front of him.

He might have succeeded in pulling you out of your mind, but he still feels so powerless, so useless, sitting here watching you try not to break.

Is there a way for him to take this from you?

I deserve my pain.

She does not deserve hers.

"It's okay. It's okay. It was a bad dream," Jean's voice remains soft as he tries to do all he can to help slow your heart that is pumping you full of your biggest fears. "That's all it was Y/N, a bad dream. You're okay. I'm here," he mutters, "I'm right here."

His thumbs move gently back and forth against your shoulders, attempting to brush the same sense of calmness into you that your touch brings to him.

Jean offers you what he can, his words,
his presence, and hopes to a god that's never on his side that it will be enough.

Your chest rises and falls quickly as you try to catch your breath. The bed beneath him shifts as your body adjusts itself. "I'm sorry. I'm," your words match your mental state, frail and frantic. "God. I'm so sorry."

Your weakened apologies and demented state of mind nick his heart in places he thought died long ago.

"Why are you apologizing." Jean lifts his right hand and moves away a piece of hair that has fallen in front of your face. "Sometimes, being in your head follows you all the way to your dreams too. That isn't something that's your fault. You're okay. I promise, Y/N. You're alright."

Lifting your head off of his pillow, you pull yourself up. With how slow you're moving, Jean can tell you feel heavy, that your dream, whatever it was, has weighed on you greatly. "Was I talking in my sleep?" You ask him, and Jean nods his head hesitantly.

His hands pull away from you and fall into his lap as he watches you chew harshly at your lip's skin. Releasing your teeth, he hears you ask. "What- what did I say?" Your question meets him with hesitance in your voice like you're unsure if this is even an answer you want.

You told him you hate liars. He isn't going to betray that. So he chooses to remain honest with you.

"Lucas," Jean tells you, cautious with how he brings this across to you. "You were talking about someone named Lucas."

In front of his eyes, he watches your entire existence shift underneath the heavy blankets, gently collapsing your body back onto his pillow. "Oh." your voice has evaporated into nothing but air. Weak, missable, pained. "Okay."

Under the low light, he watches your expression fall into this sort of sadness that he rekindles with more than he wants. Scanning your face, he can actually feel it physically pain him.

Lucas must have been important to you. Did you lose someone too?

God. Fuck. Not you. He doesn't want someone like you to have to know something like this.

"I just want to sleep," you confess to him. He can tell that you're only half here; the rest of you is shut down with exhaustion. "I'm tired, Jean. I'm so tired." You're desperate to find rest again, this much he can tell.

"I know." His heart drops down to his gut with guilt, knowing the frustration of such a small request being near impossible after a night like this. "I know you are. Why don't you try again?"

You chew hardly at your lip again. "I'm scared," with how uneven your voice is; he can tell it's taking a lot for you to admit this to him. "I'm scared to sleep."

"How can I help?" Anything you tell him, he'll do. Right now, he doesn't care about anything but helping you.

Jean waits, giving you a chance to respond and make your needs known to him, not allowing himself to push or make assumptions; he hates when people do that.

His patience remains steady; it's easy to be that way with you.

You don't answer. You only look at him, your eyes shifting across his face, carving pleads into his skin.

After a few seconds, he can tell your mind is too hazy to decide, so he chooses to try and make an offer of his own. "Music? Will that help you?" Jean takes a gander, not knowing how to deal with this—not knowing how to deal with you.

He's trying his best.

You give a hum of approval, and he takes that as your way of saying yes. "Okay," he tells you. "Give me a second."

He stands on his feet and parts himself from you. He walks over to his desk and digs out a pair of black SONY sound-canceling headphones in his drawer.

Ever since he was a little boy, Jean has had this nasty habit of putting his hands over his ears whenever he feels overwhelmed. It's a coping mechanism that his body inclines itself to, a way for him to tune out the commotion of this world when it becomes far too much.

Shielded isolation.

Sometimes he still uses the palms of his hands, while other times, he uses these headphones.

He tries to keep this habit to himself since he's pretty embarrassed about it. There are only two other people who know of this habit other than his family, and that's Marco and Eren.

Marco had known about it ever since they were kids.

Eren, however, found out about it not too long after Marco's passing on the night that Jean broke down completely on his balcony about his loss and the guilt he was suffering from for surviving, and he almost decided to do something irreversible.

A few days after that, Eren gave Jean these as a gift, an attempt to provide him with an alternative to covering his ears if he ever wanted to use them.

That was one of the kindest things someone has ever done for him.

These headphones have helped him in more ways than he can count, so maybe they can help you too.

Pushing the power button on the bottom of the left earpiece, he presses it down for five seconds and powers them on. Jean walks back over to his bed and sits on the edge. "Here," he says as he lifts them toward you. "Put these on and close your eyes, alright? I'm going to put something on for you."

"Thank you," you whisper to him as you take them from his grasp.

He gives you a slight nod. "I'll come back to check on you in a little bit. I'll take the headphones off you once I know you're back asleep and that you're okay."

Jean's words leave him with some reluctance. He quickly reminds himself of the rules he has set for himself, but his heart is speaking to him, aching for him to stay.

To remain here through the night... with you.

Is it wrong? Maybe. Is it out of his comfort zone? Completely.

But right now, that doesn't matter to him because he doesn't want you to suffer from a night full of loneliness and burning fear the way he so often does.

He's about to sacrifice another one of his set boundaries for your comfort.

Ask me to hold you. Jean thinks to himself. Please, Y/N. Ask me to hold you because if you do, if you look at me with those eyes and talk to me in that voice of yours that has slowly begun to wrap itself around every single one of my heartstrings, then I won't be able to say no.

Do it. Make me break another rule.

I have already broken some for you. What's one more?

Challenge me. The way you always do.

Push me. Do it.

He waits, but nothing comes.

You don't say it. You don't ask. You don't say a word. There is only silence and his pathetic desire for something he doesn't have a single right to be pining after.

Fighting what his heart is pounding into his veins with as much strength as he can, he begins to shift his weight to push himself off of his bed when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist.

Jean slowly looks down to see you already looking at him. Your eyes are consumed with sadness; this makes him sadder.

He feels your grip around his wrist tighten down the bones of his wrist like you are trying to anchor him into place. "Just wait," you whisper, barely audible, "wait until I fall back asleep. Please. I don't want to be alone."

Say it. Jean thinks. I need you to say it to me. I need to know that it's okay for me to do this because I won't ever do anything you don't want me to.

I respect you too much.

"Tell me what you need, Y/N," He's leading you. He's desperate, but he needs to hear the words leave your mouth.

Silence again.

Your thumb dances with apparent nervousness across his skin, then finally, after what seems to be a never-ending wait, your words come to meet him. "Hold me."

Thank. God.

By how your voice has faltered, he can tell these words you just spoke aren't familiar on your tongue, much like him.

"Okay," He limits his answer to one word, not wanting to give away how relieved he feels that you said this to him.

You move over on the mattress creating room for him, and he takes it instantaneously. He shifts himself under the blankets, the warmth of your body welcoming him in a way he's never felt welcomed by something before.

Jean rests his back against the headboard so he isn't lying down completely. He doesn't care about his own comfortability right now. He's only concerned about trying to keep you safe from your mind.

He won't allow himself to accept sleep until he knows your dreams won't come after you again, even if it means he doesn't get to rest at all.

You begin to adjust yourself beside him. "You're a good person when you let yourself be," he hears you tell him, honest and kind, full of all the things he isn't worthy of.

Your words claw at him, so deep Jean swears his heart is about to rip out of his chest that holds the frail cold thing like storage, where cobwebs and dust have piled up upon each other from his own self-neglect.

There seems to be a chip somewhere in the protective wall he's spent the previous year desperately building around himself, and it's been done by your tiny hands.

Does he even want to try to stop the leak? Or is he hoping you further the damage, knocking that wall down completely and setting him free?

Those are questions for another day.

His head slowly drops to look at you, "I've done bad things, Y/N. I know that you know this." He controls his voice, but honestly, your words just completely wrecked him. "What makes you so sure I'm actually good?"

You breathe out softly as you bring yourself closer to him, "because you wouldn't be here with me right now if you weren't."

He doesn't know what to say—hearing those words come from a mouth as sweet as yours is enough to make him want to break apart. All he can seem to bring himself to say is, "Get some rest. You're safe now. I got you."

He wraps his arms around you as you slip on his sound-canceling headphones and rest the back of your head on his chest. He uses his other hand to grab his phone, and he puts on a playlist that is full of songs only by Cigarettes After Sex. He sets the volume at a comfortable low level.

Heavenly begins to play for you.

"Goodnight, Jean-Boy," he hears you say as he feels your body sink into his.

Your warmth makes all of the parts of him that have frozen over begin to melt. "Sweet dreams, Y/N." He isn't sure if you can hear him with the headphones and music, but he says it anyway.

And just like that, in a matter of seconds, yet another one of Jean's strict rules shatters to pieces as he pulls you into his beating heart closer than anyone has ever been before.

___

Y/N's POV

Morning has come, and with it, your consciousness. Your eyes slowly flutter open, and you are kindly greeted with the dim beams of the peaceful morning peeking through the curtains.

Confusion immediately begins to creep over you. This isn't the place you usually wake up. Desperate for answers, your focus shifts across the room as you try to piece together this space you've woken up in that isn't your own.

Your head turns and meets the three framed photos placed neatly on the wooden dresser, and the haziness lingering in your head clears itself out.

Jean's room.

That's right—you stayed at Jean's apartment.

You roll on your left side. Next to you, there is an imprint on the sheets that signifies someone was once lying there, but the spot only holds emptiness. There is no one here but you.

The night you had steadily begins to come back to you, wires of hazy memories connecting to each other, breathing light on the things that happened in the dark, in this room, in this bed, with Jean.

With your mind now clearer than before, the nightmare of your brother returns to you as well.

In this dream, you were trying to stop Lucas from going through the front door of your home in Stohess, grabbing onto him, hot tears streaming down your cheeks, repeated desperate pleads rolling off your tongue like it was the only language you knew.

But Lucas went anyway despite your cries.

Out of fear, you followed him, but once you stepped outside, you were randomly transported to a morgue.

Lucas was there, but his body was stiff, cold, and unrecognizable due to injury.

You tried to scream, but you couldn't. You were stuck in place, staring at his body as it rotted away before your eyes. His skin and bones were crumbling apart in front of you. Your big brother was becoming nothing, and all you could do was stand and watch.

This is a consistent dream you used to have, especially right after his passing. It's one of those where, no matter how hard you try to forget about it, it always finds its way back to you, tearing away at the most fragile tissue of your heart.

Since you moved to Paradis, your dreams like this one have lessened, but hearing from your Father must have sparked them up again.

The difference between last night and all the other times you have suffered from terrors is that someone was there to help pull you out, and that person was Jean.

For once, you weren't your one and only.

Jean took on that role, and you almost wish you didn't know how good that felt.

You can't help but wonder how long he stuck around. Why did you ask him to stay? To hold you? Did he leave once he knew you were asleep? Or did he stay the rest of the night? Where is he now? Why do you care so much?

With these overwhelming questions, you force yourself out of bed in an attempt to get out of your head.

Walking over to his desk, you see that he left a sticky note for you on a yellow post-it near the sound calling headphones he let you use last night to help you sleep.

Went for a run w/ Eren
Be back in an hour
We will leave around 11
Coffee is brewed if you want any.
- J.K.

At the bottom of the post is a miniature sunflower drawn in the bottom right corner.

You smile to yourself and grab a fresh yellow post-it from the stack he has on his desk and a black pen out of the organizer he has set near the back edge.

You write one for him.

I don't know why I'm doing this, you think to yourself. He'll probably toss it later anyway, just like that stupid Polaroid.

Ignoring your inner thoughts, you draw a giant smiley face in the center of the post-it and an arrow pointing at it. Below you write:

☺
By the way...
I still think you deserve to
- Y/N

You pull the sticky note Jean left you off the surface and replace it with your own.

Taking the one he wrote for you, you walk to his nightstand, where you placed your book aside last night. You open the front cover, stick the post-it inside on the first page, and close the book back up.

You check the time to see that it's 9 a.m. and decide you get ready for the dreadful day ahead.

You get dressed in the yellow dress from yesterday and tie the same yellow ribbon in your hair, styling it half up, half down again. Once situated, you make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth. Then you make your way out into the living room to make yourself a cup of coffee that Jean said has been brewed.

You walk out the hallway when you hear Connie's voice from the living room. You sneakily peek around the corner of the wall to see him sitting on the couch with his phone lifted in the air making a Snapchat video.

Running his palm over the top of his buzz-cut hair, he looks into the camera and says, "This one goes out to all my baby girls..." He stops recording the video and shakes his head in disappointment. "Wait, no. Shit. Fuck. I messed up." He's talking to himself. 

You bite down on your tongue, trying to fight back a laugh that is about to break through your throat; you swallow it down and step around the corner. "Connie Springer, that video better be going to me and no one else," you say slyly as you walk over to the couch where he's sitting, arms crossed in front of your chest, "talking about baby girls like I'm not the only one for you."

"Yo! What the fuck!" Connie's phone drops to the ground as he jumps to his feet; clearly, you scared him. He snaps his head around, his face softening into relief when he realizes it's you.

"Jesus Y/N," Connie says, heavy breathing. "You scared the living fuck out of me. My ass cheeks are literally clenched so hard right now because of how close I just was to shitting my pants," he brings a hand behind his body. "When the hell did you get here?" Placing his hand on his butt, he begins to rub it out.

"I stayed here," You tell him honestly, making your way to the kitchen. "Don't tell me I'm that terrifying to look at in the morning Connie. If you think that, how else are we supposed to sleep in the same bed together when we get married."

His eyes go so wide they look like they could pop right out of his skull; "you stayed h-" He stops mid-sentence, clamps his mouth, and shakes his head, catching his tongue. He quickly changes his words. "Waking up to you? You're fucking kidding me, right? My morning wood would literally be permanent." He leans forward and picks his fallen phone off the floor.

"Would it?" You laugh softly and pour the coffee into the black galaxy-printed Star Wars mug Jean left out for you, the steam of it brushing against your face. "I gotta say, Connie, I'm a visual learner."

"Should have stayed the night in my bed instead of Jean's then. You would have learned real fucking quick. " Connie says, making his way over to you.

You shrug. "If only I had known I was invited."
You take a sip of your coffee, letting the warmth and flavor consume you.

"Anywhere I am, Y/N, I will always want you there right along with me." Connie crosses his arms in front of him. "Come on. You should know this by now."

You take a couple more sips of coffee and swallow. "I'll be sure to remember that."

"Good," Connie winks. His arms drop by his side as he comes closer to you. "How's my girl this morning, by the way?" He asks, holding his palm out, signaling he wants some of your coffee.

You smile and hand the mug to him. "Doing good, just a little tired. What about you?"

"Doing fucking amazing since I get to see your fine ass this early in the morning." He takes a sip and cringes, forcing the liquid down. "Black coffee, you bold girl."

"Yeah. I like living on the edge," you say sarcastically. "Can't you tell?"

Connie tries the coffee again like a second attempt is gonna change his mind. It doesn't. He pulls the mug away from his lips and makes a disgusted face. "Nah, I was right. Shit's ass."

You laugh. "Coffee's coffee."

"Probably tastes better than whatever Floch's ass makes for you at that shitty coffee cart." He says, handing you back the mug. "I'm hungry. Are you?"

Both hands wrap tightly around the mug's base, the heat seeping into your skin. "Depends. What are we talking about here?"

Connie cocks a brow. "Donuts?"

"Then yes, I'm starving." A smile cracks through your teeth before taking another swig of coffee. 

Connie's smile grows, and he gives a swift nod. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any better, you prove me wrong. Honestly, Y/N, you continue to blow my mind."

You remove the coffee mug from your lips. "Keep it up, Connie, and I'll blow your mind in more ways than just one."

Connie chuckles, bringing his hand up to your face. He lightly pinched your cheek. "Finish your coffee, and let's go before I start running laps around this entire damn complex."

Quickly, you finish your coffee, clean your dish, and the two of you head out.

You walk through the filled parking lot of the complex and arrive at Connie's car, a silver 2012 Jeep Patriot with multiple dents and scratches on different areas of the vehicle. On the backside of the trunk is a bumper sticker that is a picture of an orange cat and on the other side of it is the word magnet in capitalized bold black letters.

Pussy. Magnet. This fucking guy.

You laugh to yourself, and you open the car door. "Sick car," you say as you slide into the passenger seat.

"Thanks," Connie says proudly and slams the car door shut. He puts his keys into his ignition, starting it up. "I like to call it my pimp ride."

"Oh yeah," you smile at him. "I can definitely see why." Connie laughs, and the two of you drive off.

You arrive at Target after a quick ride full of music and stupid jokes that only make your love for Connie to deepen.

"What kind of donuts do you want?" Connie asks you as you walk through the automatic glass doors of the store's entrance.

"Surprise me," you reply. "I'll eat anything."

Connie glances at you and cocks a brow as the two of you make a left, furthering yourselves into the store. "If I give a box with my dick inside?"

Your shoulder roll. "I'll eat that shit up too."

"Aw, fuck," Connie's jaw drops before his lips curl up into a smirk. "You know, it's bat shit crazy that you're a visual learner because I happen to be one too."

"When the time is right, Connie," you say with a sly smile. "Seriously though, I'm good with anything, so grab whatever. I'm going to use the restroom."

The two of you halt your movement and step to the side to get out of the way of other shoppers. "I'm holding you to it," Connie says with a beaming smile. "I'll meet you upfront."

You look at him and blink. "You aren't gonna kiss me goodbye?"

"Come here then," Connie places his hands on both sides of your face, and his lips fall on your right cheek. He plants a quick kiss on the center of your skin. "Once for good measure." He shifts his head and plants another one on your left cheek. "And another one as a token of my appreciation for being one of the best god damn people I've ever met in my life."

"You're flattering me, Connie," You smile at him.

He returns the same kind of smile. "Only because it's what you deserve." And the two of you go your separate ways.

You make your way across the store and quickly use the restroom located in the back right corner.

Heading back to the front of the store, the camera section catches your eye, and you stumble on your footing, attempting to halt your step.

You shift your weight and turn down the aisle filled with various Polaroid film and colorful straps to attach to your camera to make it easier to carry around.

Your eyes scan the wide selection of straps, of all different variations. Your gaze falls on a light yellow one with white stitching. The first person you think of is Jean; from what he said yesterday, he seems to like the color.

You know he said he's not the sentimental type and that he doesn't use the camera much, if at all. Still, something makes you want to get it for him anyway, especially with him helping you the way he did last night and him sacrificing his day to take you to a place he knows nothing about.

Trying not to overthink it the way you usually do, you make the quick, spur-of-the-moment decision to go with your instinct and grab the strap and a small package of polaroid film.

With the items in hand, you begin to make your way to the front of Target to check out and meet Connie.

You are almost there when your eyes fall on a rack of various beanies, and Connie crosses your mind. He went of his way to spend his morning with you, and he has made you feel nothing but accepted since you moved here, so it's the least you can do. Plus, you can't very well get something for his friend and not him when he's the one who brought you here.

With too many colors to choose from, you decide to send him a quick text.

Y/N - Connie, my love.

Con Man 🍆 - Yes, Sweetheart.
What can I do for you? Wait...
Are you thinking about me while
in the restroom? What are you
doing in there, really? 😏

Y/N - 😏 I would tell you, but
I'm going to go ahead and
let that mind of yours wander

Con Man 🍆 - You're so cruel

Y/N - Forgive me

Con Man 🍆 - EZ. Just like that,
you're forgiven. You hold
fucking power over me.

Y/N - Feelings mutual. But fr tho
What's your favorite color?

Con Man 🍆- Blue Why?

Y/N - no questions, please

Con Man 🍆 - Of course, my apologies,
anything that Y/N says goes.
I'll submit it to you, no problem.

Y/N - I can get behind that.
I do really love submissive men

Con Man 🍆 - Any man in their right
the mind would submit to you, Y/N
That's guaranteed

Y/N - Honestly, Connie, we better
be going to the courthouse after
this to sign our marriage papers

Con Man 🍆 - Are you in my mind?
Because that's exactly what my plan was

Y//N - Good, my dream
is becoming a reality

Con Man 🍆 - Yours and mine both 💙

Y/N - 💛 I'll meet you upfront in a few

Con Man 🍆 - I'm checking out
right now, Take as long as you
need I'll wait a lifetime for TSU's finest

You laugh softly before locking your phone and stuffing it away. You grab a dark blue beanie out of its place and make your way to the front. You go to self-checkout and make your purchase, and bag up your items.

Stuffing your receipt inside the bag, you walk to the entrance to see Connie standing near the doors with a big smile holding up the box of donuts he bought in the air. "There you are. See? I told you I'd wait the rest of my life." He lowers the donuts and tilts his head, signaling toward the bag you're holding. "Whatcha got there?"

You bring the bag closer to your body, curling your hand around it, refusing to let him peak inside. "It's a surprise," you tell him with a smile as you walk through the two automatic doors and head out to the parking lot. "What kinda donuts did you get?"

Connie shifts his wrist, moving the box toward you. You read the label and see that it's a variety pack of Entenmann's Softee's donuts.

He shakes the box a little before holding them near the center of his chest again. "I know you said you didn't care, but I wasn't sure which one was your favorite, so I got a pack with all of them so you could choose."

Keeping up with his step, you nudge him softly on the shoulder. "Is this your way of telling me you're secretly in love with me, Connie?"

"Yeah, did it work?" he says as he pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. "How's my game?"

"The best I've seen," you say, scrunching your nose. The two of you laugh as you hop into Connie's car.

Once secured inside, Connie hands the box of donuts over to you.  "Be a good girl for me, Y/N, and crack that shit open," He says as he turns his car on and adjusts the air.

"As you wish, Connie." With the box in your lap, you slide your finger under the tab and break the seal. "What kind do you want?" you ask, pulling the top open, exposing the rows of various flavors of donuts.

"Powdered," he says without even having to think of it. "Please and thank you." Music begins to play on his muffled speakers that seem to have some kind of short circuit.

You nod proudly. "That's the way to go." You dig into the box and hand him the requested flavored donut.

He takes it from your hold and takes a large bite. "You know," Connie's head turns toward you as he talks through a mouthful. "I still can't believe you stayed the night with Jean."

"It wasn't like that." You dig into the box and pick out a powered donut of your own before meeting his eyes. "What's so hard to believe, though? Doesn't he always have girls over or whatever?"

Connie chews a few times and then swallows. "Nah, I know it wasn't, but still. I don't think that mullet fucker has ever had another girl in his bed like... ever. He legit never lets one stay the night."

You are about to take a bit out of your donut when you pause, lips pressing together and your eyebrows lift. This surprises you, but you shake it off and try not to make it obvious.

"Oh, well," you relieve the pressure from your lips. "I don't know. I guess it's just because he's taking me back home to Stohess today to take care of some stuff. I was already at your place from helping him study last night, so he said it would just be easier if I crashed."

"All the way to Stohess? Damn." Connie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I get it. I just wasn't expecting it. It's not something that Jean ever does. He's really picky and weird with that kinda stuff. It's like an invasion of his privacy or whatever. I don't know."

"I just figured I was one of many," you say before taking a small bite of donut.

"Nah, Y/N," Connie says, shaking his head. "You're dead ass the only one."

You stay quiet, taking another bite of the donut as Connie continues. "Everything good, though? Why are you going back home?"

"Just some stuff I have to figure out. It's not any big deal." Your tongue swipes across your lips, ridding away of any access powder. "Do me a favor and don't tell Sasha about this yet. I haven't had the chance to talk to her, and if she hears from someone other than me that I stayed the night with Jean or that I'm going back to Stohess, she's going to have a shit tone of questions."

"Sure. I'll keep quiet for you," Connie's donut shifts around in his hands. "Even though I feel extremely betrayed that Jean got to stay with you and I didn't." A small smile begins to tug at his lips.

You take another bite of your donut. "Believe me, nothing breaks my heart more, but I actually have something for you that I think might make up for that."

Connie laughs, his eyebrows lifting with surprise. "Oh yeah? What is it?" he asks before throwing the small remainder of the donut into his mouth, scarfing it down.

You set the somewhat eaten donut back into the box. Leaning your weight forward, you dig into the plastic bag of your feet and pull out the beanie you purchased for him. "Here." You hold
it out to him, "it's the reason I asked you your favorite color. I've noticed you like to wear beanies a lot, so I thought maybe you could use another one."

Connie's jaw drops as he inhales a loud gasp. "Y/N, Are you for fucking real right now?" He takes the beanie out of your hold so quickly you can feel his excitement zap through you. "What the fuck? Where the actual hell did a girl like you come from?"

"Your dreams, duh," You laugh softly. "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding me? I fucking love it." He slaps the beanie on his head, covering his buzzcut grey hair. "You're seriously like the best thing that's ever happened to me." He looks at you with a bright smile, its color making his green eyes pop.

His happiness fills you with joy of your own. "And so are you," you say. "I had to get you something to show you that even though I haven't known you for that long, you are easily the coolest guy I have ever met."

"I'm so fucking glad your fine ass moved here, let me tell you." He points with his thumb to the beanie secured perfectly on his head. "How do I look?"

"Like a million fucking bucks." Your eyes flicker with adoration as you look at him. Connie really is a handsome guy.

"Good, because that's exactly how I feel," he replies while looking at himself through the rear view mirror. "Holy shit balls, man. I love being your friend."

"Same," You smile. "I hope you're okay with being stuck with me."

His eyes tear from the rear view over to you. "More than okay with that shit," placing his hand on the gear of his car, shifts it, "all of us are." And he begins to drive.

You smile as Connie pulls out of the shopping center and onto the main street. He requests that you hand him a chocolate donut, you abide, and the two of you eat your donuts together for the remainder of the ride.

Arriving back at the boys' apartment, Connie balances the box of donuts in one hand as he unlocks the door with the other. He pushes the door open for you, "After you, my lady." You step inside with him following directly after you.

You are greeted by Jean, who is standing in the kitchen. He turns around when he hears you enter inside, his eyes instantly meeting yours. "Where the hell were you guys?"

He is wearing black jeans, black vans, and a vintage forest green Nike crewneck, the small white signature swoosh sign resting on the left side of his chest.

There's no denying that he looks good, but you notice that he also seems pretty tired. His mullet is messily in place, and his eyes are sitting heavy.

"Breakfast," Connie answers, walking into the apartment and shaking the box of donuts around. "Why? Mad because you wanna be the one to take Y/N out instead of me?"

Jean scoffs, "Nah. Not at all."

"Then is it because you wanna take me out, Jeanie? I always knew you had a big fat juicy crush on the Con Man." Connie quickly skips over to Jean, the donuts in the box shifting around with his energetic movement. "Come here right now. Let me kiss you."

You make your way into the living room and sit on the edge of the armrest as you watch them interact.

Jean moves out of the way, dodging Connie's closeness. "I'd say I'm gonna break your jaw, but fuck knows you'll find a way to keep talking," he insults, stepping out of the kitchen toward you. "Where'd you get that beanie from? Haven't seen you wear that shit before."

Connie places the box of donuts on the counter near the fridge. "Y/N got it from me when we went to Target," he admits while adjusting it on his head. "Nice, huh? One of the many reasons her and I are fucking end game."

Jena clicks his tongue, and he ranks a firm hand back through his hair, trying to fix its rough edges. "That was nice of her. You still look like shit, though."

Connie's hand moves from his head, dropping down to his side. "I know the fucker with a fucking mullet isn't talking right now."

"Right. Says the fucker with no hair at all." Jean returns, and Connie gives him the finger.

Jean ignores him and puts his focus on you. "You ready?"

You give a small but hesitant nod. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."

You gather your things from yesterday to take with you and bid your farewell to Connie, thanking him for the donuts and company, and you and Jean head out to the parking lot.

When you arrive at Jean's Mercedes, he unlocks it with his key fob. "Do anything more for Connie, and he's gonna wanna date you," he tells you as he makes his way over to the side of the passage to open the door for you.

"A little too late on your warning there, Jean," you say as you slide into the passenger seat. "The two of us are already dating."

Jean scoffs, both irritated and amused. "End game, right?"

You toss your belongings in the back seat. "Smart boy," you taunt with a smile, and Jean rolls his eyes before shutting the door and making his way to the driver's side of the car.

Jean swiftly slides his tall body into the front seat and shuts the door. "Honestly, though. I guess it was cool of you to do that for him.," he admits as he starts the car, keeping his focus forward, odd of you. "You're a good person, Y/N. You know that, right?"

Air catches in your lungs at his words. You clear your throat to keep yourself from almost choking, "That's probably the nicest thing you've said to me," you tell him, honestly, "thank you."

He nods but doesn't say anything else. So you continue. "I uh," you stumble on your tongue. "I got you something too."

Jean snaps his head toward you, his face pulsing with shock. "You what?"

"I got you something," you repeat as you hand him the target bag. "I saw it and, I don't know. I just thought maybe you could use it. If not, it's okay, but..." your words dissolve as you sit in self-doubt.

God, you feel so stupid right now. Why did you even do this?

Jean digs into the plastic bag and pulls out the yellow strap and small film pack. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes have gone thin. "What..." he's trying to say something more, but it seems he can't. It's all getting caught somewhere inside of him.

Does he think it's stupid? Does he hate it? God. Your mind never shuts the fuck up.

Your shoulder slightly lifts as your eyes fall into your lap. "I know you said you don't use your polaroid camera much, but I figured if you ever changed your mind, those are some essentials you could use. There's a strap that you can attach your camera to so it's easier to carry around and some film because I didn't know how much you had left. Plus, I feel like you could never have too much."

You feel even more ridiculous now trying to explain yourself.

Jean doesn't say anything right away, but you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. You lift your gaze and turn your head to look at him. He is staring at you, holding the items in his hand, lips parted. You can't get a read on a single thing he's thinking. "Jean?"

He finally blinks, clearing his vision and breaking it from you looking down at the items. "Sorry, I just uh. I wasn't expecting you to do something like this."

You take a breath. "Yeah, to be honest, I wasn't either, but when I was at Target with Connie, I saw them and decided to get them for you. I didn't know what color you would want, so I just guessed."

He opens the center council and pulls out his black Polaroid camera. He takes the strap and attaches its ends in the tiny holes where it's supposed to go, securing it into place. "I'll try to use my camera more, alright?"

This fills you with a sort of happiness that you haven't felt in a long time. "Alright."

"Yellow was a good choice, by the way." Looking back up, he glances at the ribbon in your hair briefly before bringing his focus back to his polaroid camera. "I like yellow."

"Good," you say, breathing out a faint sigh of relief. "I'm glad."

"Thanks." He sets the polaroid camera back into its hidden spot and the pack of film you got him with it, "for doing this and for thinking of me," he closes the top of the council, securing his gifts inside.

"Yeah." You smile. "You're welcome."

He shifts the car in reverse. "I gotta get gas, then we'll go," he says as he puts his right arm behind the back of the passenger seat and shifts his upper body to look out the back window, and he pulls out of his parking spot.

After a minute trip down the street, you arrive at the nearest Chevron. Jean pulls into one of the open gas pumps and parks his car. "I gotta go inside to pay. Want anything?" He offers, shutting off the ignition.

You shake your head. "No, thanks. I'm okay."

"You sure?"

You nod once. "Positive." He gives you a hesitant nod in return before hopping out of the car.

You watch him disappear inside when your phone vibrates, signaling a text.

Sash <3 - Good morning, my love bug.
How are you? I miss you so much.

You smile to yourself; never a day without her checking up. But your smile quickly diminishes once you remember where you're headed.

Y/N - Good Morning, baby. I'm doing okay.
I'm heading back to Stohess to meet with my dad. He says he needs to talk to me about Lucas. IDK. But I'll be back late tonight. Don't worry about me. Enjoy your time with Nico.

Sash <3 - Wait, What the actual hell?!
Lucas?? Your dad?? No. I'll have Nice
take me home right now, and I'll go with you.
I don't want you going alone.

Y/N - Seriously, Sash, don't worry.
I promise I'm okay. Jean is with me

Sash <3 - Jean? As in OUR Jean?
What? How? Hello????

All the questions you knew were coming. All the questions you're going to have to answer later.

Y/N - Honestly, I don't know.
He offered to come with me.
I'll tell you everything when
I get home, okay? I promise.

Sash <3 - Ugh. Okay. Please just
be careful. I love you, Y/N.

Y/N - I love you too.

As you send the last text, the driver's car door opens.

"Here," Jean says, leaning his upper body into the car. Your focus shifts, and you see him holding out a red box of chocolate Pocky.

You look back up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "I-"

"Take it." He extends his arm toward you, "I know you said you didn't want anything, but it's gonna be a long-ass day. You might change your mind later, so I thought I should get you something just in case."

You obey. Reaching out, you take the box out of his hold. "Thank you, Jean."

He nods, "I got you water too," he says, placing two large bottles in the cup holders. "Everything good?" He signals with his sharp chin toward your phone.

"Yeah," you say with a nod, putting the pocky in the small storage place at the bottom of his car door for safekeeping. "Sasha just texted me to see how I was doing today. No big deal, just her everyday routine."

"Every day?" he asks.

"Every day," you repeat in confirmation.

Jean laughs, not even bothering to fight it this time; you relish in it once again as your head tilts in wonderment, "What's funny?"

"Eren does that same exact shit with me, too," he tells you, laughter simmering back into nothing before lifting his body back out of his car and going to pump gas, filling his tank up for the long drive.

___

You are about halfway to Stohess. So far, the car ride has been full of small talk, getting under each other's skin, music, and some instances of silence that you never find comfortable unless you are with him.

Neither of you has spoken a word about last night, and you're grateful. It's easier that way. You don't know what you would say anyway.

Looking out the window, you begin to see certain things that signify you are reaching closer to your destination.

"You know, the closer we get, the more I remember how much I hate this place," you say, breaking the silence that once was. "Especially the people in it."

"Your dad?" Jean asks.

You breathe sharply out of your nose. "One of them."

"What's he like?" Jean's eyes are focused ahead on the road, but you can tell all of his attention is on you.

Your head moves in the direction of him. "Alcoholic asshole."

Jean's head snaps as he glances at you before turning his focus back. "Was he always that way?"

"No. Not always." You feel your heart drops into the lowest part of your stomach. You never talk about your father, not like this. "I was actually close to him when I was little, like back when I was growing up with Sasha. He was a good dad. He would take me to get ice cream or to the movies, stuff like that, but that all changed once he moved us out of Mitras. I think all of that makes it harder for me to come to terms with the person he's become because I have all of those memories of what he used to be."

Jean runs a nervous hand across his jawline, the other remaining on the lower part of the steering wheel. "What made him change?"

You hate talking about this, but since Jean did so much for you last night and today, the least you could do is give him honesty.

"My mom died when I was around 12." You utter, your voice wavering just a little as you feel your heart crack. Jean's eyes go wide as you continue. "It happened suddenly in her sleep in the middle of the night. My dad woke up and found her, and he hasn't been the same since. I guess grief got the best of him."

The temples in Jean's forehead tense as his teeth grind. "I didn't," he shakes his head as his words stumble, clearly not expecting this answer. "I didn't know."

A feeling of relief rushes over you. You want to kiss the ground that Sasha and Eren walk on for respecting your privacy. "It's not something I really talk about," you admit.

"I get it." Jean breaths in deeply through his nose. "Sometimes, not talking about certain things makes them a little less real."

"Yeah," You nod softly, knowing he understands. "Since my dad never got over my mom's death, he turned to alcohol instead, and through the years, he just got worse and worse. Angrier, more irrational, and less like a dad. But there was always this part of me that hoped he would choose me instead of a bottle, but that never ended up happening."

Jean swallows hard, taking in all that you're saying. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Right before he went into rehab, but I guess he's out now," you let out a soft sigh and push your shoulder into the cushioned black door, "I'm dreading having to see him again. I just really want to be able to convince him that I have my shit together and that I'm better now that I'm the hell away from this place and from him, you know?"

Jean's eyes move from the road over to you. "You need me to act like your boyfriend? It might help him believe it."

Looking at him, your eyes peel wide as you process his suggestion, "What like fake dating?"

He shrugs before lining his head again. "Adds to the persuasion that you really have moved on from the place you hate so much."

Your eyebrows pull together. "Are you being serious right now? Or are you messing with me? I can't tell."

Jean's mouth twitches. "Why? Do you actually need me to?"

You take a moment to yourself to think.

This could actually work especially considering that the entire reason why your father thought you were bluffing when you told him you were going to move was because of your ex.

He never believed you would actually leave him. In his eyes, you didn't have a reason to because your ex was one of the good guys.

Your father had always liked him ever since you started dating him, but you never really figured out why. Probably because he was wealthy, athletic, and strong, everything a man should be and everything a woman needs to be with to survive. Or it might have been because your ex always loved kissing your father's ass despite the horror stories he knew.

"He's your father, Y/N,"  he would say, "treat the man with respect."

Whatever the reason was, the two of them got along alarmingly well.

It's true what they say; Misery loves company,

You pull yourself from your thoughts. "Would you actually do it?"

Jean pauses for a second, his tongue swiping across his lips. "Yeah, I'll do it but under one condition."

Your shoulders lift as you dramatically wince. "Oh, God. I'm afraid to ask what it is."

He glances over at you as he switches lanes to the right. "I need you to be my girlfriend for my parent's twentieth wedding anniversary in a couple of weeks," he expresses a sigh full of dread. "It's a big family thing. I just need them off my ass with everything. You need to convince yours that you've moved on, and I need to convince mine that I'm doing better."

"Are you?" You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "Doing better?"

The temples in his forehead tense. He pauses briefly. "Trying to," He confesses. "What about you? Have you moved on?"

You swallow hard. "trying to."

"See?" Jean's right shoulder lifts. "We're in the same boat. Might as well help each other out."

You hum. "Are you asking me because I'm your last resort, or am I just that special?" you return sarcastically.

Jean chuckles softly. "I was originally gonna ask Sasha, but my parents know her, so they wouldn't buy that shit for a minute."

"Makes sense," you say as small smile tugs at your lips. "I mean, you could ask Eren to do it."

Jean scoffs, his shoulder rolling back. "Yeah, real fucking funny."

"Or what about Reiner?" you nudge him softy in his arm with your elbow. "He has the tits for it."

Jean laughs, the sound of it immediately rushing over you. "Jesus fuck, Y/N. Come on." 

You nudge him again as your laughter matches his. "That was funny. Admit it."

"Yeah, alright, fine. I'll give that shit to you." He continues to laugh. "So, what's your answer to my suggestion?"

Your laughter begins to subside. "Okay. I'll do it."

His face shifts into relief. "Yeah? You'll be my girlfriend?"

You give a nod as you adjust your seatbelt. "Yeah, but since you have a condition for your agreement, I have one too."

"Which is what exactly?" he asks, looking over to you.

You flash him a smile. "You have to buy me road trip snacks."

His head shifts straight again, brushing it deep into the headrest. "I was gonna do that shit anyway, Y/N."

"Good, then we have ourselves a deal. Just try not actually to fall in love with me, alright?" You jab at him with your lips still curled upward,

Jean switches lanes to the right as he shakes his head. "Don't worry, despite your stupid claim about that shit being embedded in my palm, not falling for you isn't going to be a problem for me at all."

"Okay, Jean," you chuckle softly, "I'll believe it when I see it."

Though his eyes are focused on the road, you still see them roll. "You seriously annoy me."

You gasp sarcastically, pretending to be hurt by his words. "That's no way to talk to your fake girlfriend, is it, Jean-Boy?"

"Shut up, Y/N. You're jumping the gun," Jean pauses, clearly vexed, "You're not my girlfriend yet."

"I know," You laugh, "I will be soon, though."

"Lucky me," He pauses shortly. "What made you decide to come back here anyway since you hate it so much?"

His innocent question makes hurt impale you at once.

Lucas. My best friend. My big brother. My only brother. My only anything.

Just the thought of his name causes the beats of your heart to go missing. This is an off-limits subject, not just to everyone around you but also to yourself. You never go there.

Jean doesn't know that, though. He hardly knows anything about you, but occasionally, he looks at you, and despite his lack of knowledge, you feel more understood by him than you do the people who actually know you, and that's a level of comfort you haven't found anywhere else.

He waits for your answer as you try to get a hold of your thoughts. He doesn't push. He never pushes, and you want to thank him for that.

So you choose truth as your thank you. "Verity?"

"Okay." He gives a sharp nod. "Shoot."

"Um, well," You pause for a second, ensuring you're steady enough not to break, knowing how difficult this topic is for you to talk about, even when it's brief. "My dad has been texting me for the past two days trying to get hold of me, but I've ignored him because I really don't want anything to do with him. But then last night, he texted me and told me he needed me to talk to me about my brother."

Jean glances over at you. "You have a brother?"

You can't even look at him. Your focus remains squarely on the road in front of you. "I did. I had a brother named..." you pause, running your tongue across the inside of your cheek. You hate how uneven your voice is right now.

You lose everything when you talk about this loss.

You take a breath and begin again. "My brother's name was Lucas. He passed away last year in an accident. That's why I'm coming back." You feel like your guts have been lodged into the back of your throat. "My father said he needed to talk to me about something with him, and I couldn't bring myself to ignore him anymore once he said that."

Out of your peripheral, you see Jean's hands tighten around the steering wheel, as the rest of his body freezes. You know he recognizes the name from last night, but he doesn't say a word.

Your eyes close shut as you feel tears fight to pass through, but you refuse to let them have access. In your lap, your hands ball themselves into fists, fingernails digging bone-deep as you try not to shatter right here in the passenger seat of this car.

You're exposing the rawest parts of yourself to Jean right now, the secret elements of you that make you want to scream out in misery. There's more to your loss of Lucas, but even the thought of elaborating on it makes you want to curl over and vomit until there's nothing left inside of you.

You're scared of what you have lost, how you lost it, and the truth behind it all.

Maybe, when the time is right, you can find a way to tell him everything, but your strength isn't there yet, not for Jean, not for you, not for anybody.

Please don't ask me any questions. I can't answer them even if I wanted to.

"I completely understand why you're coming back. You're a good sister. I really appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me something like this." Jean's focus moves from your face to your palms, and he sees your thumbs anxiously rub together. He grabs his phone and holds it out to you. "Here, Y/N." He's trying to give you something else for your hands to do. "Put on whatever you want, okay?"

As if he can read your thoughts, he keeps whatever questions he has to himself and accepts what little you have given. You are immediately filled with ease.

Your hands come apart, and you take his device, desperate for your mind to move. "Cigarettes After Sex?"

He nods softly. "Good choice."

You click the playlist 'This is 'Cigarettes After Sex'' made specially by Spotify. As you hit shuffle and Sweet begins to play, filling his entire car with its tune as he continues to drive toward a life that you wish was never yours.

There is now music, comfortable silence, not an ounce of pity, and the unspoken mutual understanding of never asking more from each other than what is given.

This is so much better than any words he could have ever said.

___

Finally, you have arrived. You see the big green welcome sign on the side of the road that reads:

Welcome to Stohess
___________________

A Nice Place to Live

Even the sign to this place is full of shit.

You sit quietly as you look out the window, watching businesses and homes pass by.

This town is full of dirt, Joshua trees, and roads that needed repaving years ago. Stohess is on the smaller side, known for its humidity, blowing winds, and people who can never mind their own business.

It's the kind of town you dream of getting out of the day you graduate high school because if you stay, you stay stuck. The only ones who love it are the ones who never leave.

You lean the top of your head against the glass window of his car. "We just got here, and I already want the hell out."

"Should we say fuck it and just keep driving?" Jean asks. With his nonchalant tone, you can't tell if he's messing around or not.

Your head lifts, and you slowly turn to look at him. "Is that a legitimate offer?"

His hand tightens on the steering wheel. "Do you want it to be?"

You bite at the inside of your cheek. "If I said yes?"

"Honestly, Y/N?" Jean glances over at you quickly before turning his attention to the road. "If that's what you wanted, I would take you wherever you wanted to go."

Nerves settle in your stomach, but you ignore them by smiling faintly. "I wish I could tell you just to keep driving, but I need to do this for my brother."

"Just thought I would offer," he says with a nod as he takes the off-ramp. "What street is your house on?"

"It's Canary Street. Turn left at the upcoming light. I'll tell you how to get there." you say as your eyes follow all the passing buildings and business.

Everything is the same. This place is like in its own little bubble where nothing ever changes. When you're here, the outside world doesn't even seem to exist.

Jean listens to the directions as you give them to him, and he soon pulls in front of your house, a very basic off-white two-story home with a grey roof and a yard made up of patchy grass that your father never bothered keeping up with it though he said he would.

The house on Canary Street responsible for some of your worst memories still stands as upright as the day you left it.

With no 2010 ruby red Toyota Tacoma in the center cracked driveway leading to the garage, you know your father isn't here yet. That's no surprise, though. He is always running on his own damn schedule, not caring an inch for anyone else around him.

You check your phone to see that he has texted that work has kept him over, and he will be there to meet you in about an hour.

Jean parks on the side of the road in front of the house. You hop out of his car, making your way to the front door, and he follows.

Behind the big white planter that holds a large cypress on the right side of the door, you pull out the old gold spare key from its hidden spot that has remained the same since you moved here.

You stick the key inside the fob, twist it, and push the squeaky door open. You can't tell if it's heavy because of its weight or because of your dread. "Welcome to the humble abyss," you say as you step inside, Jean following in directly after.

Everything is exactly how you remember it, barren and cold. Your father never did a single thing to make this place home. No decorations, no anything. Grey carpet beneath your feet and cream-colored walls surrounding you that you once spent your days suffocating from.

Jean looks around, but whatever he is thinking, he keeps to himself.

"As you can tell, home sweet home," you say sarcastically, throwing up a hand to the off-white walls, their paint peeling in random places.

Jean's eyes move as he steps around himself in a circle taking in the place. "How long did you live here?"

You close the front door and lock it behind you. "About eight years, but it feels like an eternity when you're basically living in hell."

"At least you're out now," he replies.

"Yeah. It took me long enough," you breathe. "My dad texted me and said he's running about a late. I hope you don't mind waiting."

Jean shakes his head. "As long as you wanna wait, I'll wait with you."

Gratitude rushes over you. You open your mouth to reply when his phone begins to ring. He yanks it out of his pocket, and he reads the caller ID, "It's Connie," he says, tilting his phone screen for you to read.

"Aw. He misses you already," you say with a soft smile. "Take it. I'm going to go upstairs." He gives you a nod before answering the phone, and you part for him.

"Hey, bro," you hear Jean say from behind you to Connie on the other side of the line. "This better be important, or you're just giving me another reason to wanna beat your bald-headed ass."

You laugh to yourself as you make your way up the carpeted stairs that creek beneath your weight. Taking slow paces, you make your way down the long hallway, but you immediately pause when you pass in front of Lucas's room just to your right, causing that side of your body to run cold.

Slowly, you turn toward it and stand still in front of his door for a few seconds before finally getting yourself to move enough to take a step forward and walk up to the closed door.

Resting your forehead against the cool surface, you place your hand on the doorknob. As if you've gone paralyzed, losing all of your function, you aren't able move it a single inch. Your fingers remain wrapped around the silver knob, not doing any of what they were made to do.

You haven't stepped foot in Lucas's room since the day he died. This door has remained stuck in this exact position from glue made out of grief. Not even your father has brought himself to step inside.

Even standing here now, though time has since passed, you still can't find it in you to push it open.

You can't do it. You can't step inside. You can't look at all of the items that once made him who he was when he is no longer something that exists.

And even if you did, would his room even smell like him anymore? Or has his scent disappeared from the face of the earth, just like he has?

These questions and the fact you even have to wonder about things like this make you feel almost sick.

Feeling bitterness creeps its way into your throat, you swallow hard and find enough mobility to take pull your hand away from the knob. You force your body away from the space that was once your brothers and make your way toward the room next to it that was once yours.

When you turn, you freeze when the shadow of something hanging at the end of the walls catchers your attention. You walk yourself over at a slow pace, the floor cracking with release beneath the pressure of your feet. 

Arriving at the wall, you square yourself off, and your heart drops from your tight chest into your knotted stomach.

Two frames hang outside to the left of your father's door. He put these up back during one of the times he was claiming to be better, pathetically attempting to make this place more into a home just for him to fall back once again, even worse than before. You're surprised he still has them up.

On the left is a picture from your high school graduation taken on the school's football field, in your white gap and gown, orange diploma in hand with a faint smile on your face.

To the left of it is a picture of Lucas on his graduation a couple of years before yours. He, too, is standing on the same football field, orange diploma in hand, with his orange cap and gown. He's smiling cheek to cheek in this photo, the smile he always wore until he no longer could.

Weeks before leaving home, you were crashing at a motel, trying to create distance between your father since drinking was the worst you had ever seen. You came back to this house to grab this photo Lucas so you could have it with you when you left for Paradis, but that was the same night your father was the drunkest you had ever seen him.

You walked through the front door, and he was on the couch, with a bottle of whisky in hand and an empty one beside him on the floor.

He asked you what you were doing, and you told him you were leaving Stohess, and you only came back for the photo of Lucas. That was when his drunken rage broke through, and in an instant, he began to blame you for Lucas's death and got physical on you once you tried to stand up for yourself. You left out of fear and injury, not daring to try to make it upstairs to grab the photo.

You swore to yourself that you would return for it, but you couldn't find it in yourself to step into this household again before you left Stohess behind entirely, and you have always felt so guilty for not having it in you to come back for Lucas.

| now playing ... atlas touch ; sleeping at last |

The only reason you're standing in here now is that you have someone with you, and the feeling of not having to be alone makes you feel just a little bit stronger than you were the last time you were standing within these walls.

Looking at this photo of your brother, tears begin to well in your eyes, burning them with all the emotions you keep locked away.

You try as hard as you can to hold these forming tears in, to eat them whole, but your emotions take control of you before you can control them.

This time, your emotions win. This time, you take the loss head-on—a rare internal defeat. But it's no surprise that this loss is yours to take.

After all, the softest, most fragile parts of your heart will forever be made up of your brother.

You submit to yourself, a single hot tear escaping and slipping down the length of your face for the first time in you don't know how long as you pull Lucas's photo off its hinge, ripping it from its place next to yours. You bring the frame in toward your face, so close that your shallow breaths fog up the glass.

Your stare and stare as if you are going to breathe life into the photo. Like your eyes hold some sort of supernatural power that will force the image to regenerate, and your brother will come to life.

It hurts. God, it hurts. 

You study his thick dark curly hair, round blue eyes, and the dark bags sitting beneath them because he was always tired and never slept much.

In this photo, Lucas is healthy, showing you all the pieces of what he used to be, nothing at all like the mutilated vessel of him you saw the day he died.

Another tear spills down your cheek at the sight as your hands begin to shake.

You look at his smile, one that was once so bright it shined a light on the entire earth. In your life, there wasn't the sun. There was Lucas.

He was warm, kind, bright, everything you wanted to be though he never saw himself that way.

Day in and day out, you tried so hard to show him his value, but when someone is blind to themselves, it doesn't matter what other people see.

Your eyes shift around quickly, and you look at his hands holding his diploma and remember the roughness that his palms had, from always being hard at work and from always protecting you.

He was so much better to you than he died believing himself to be.

Slowly you lift your hand a set it up on the cold frame. You begin to trace his face again and again and again like if you touch it enough, you will be able to feel something below your fingertips besides hard transparency.

You want to crawl into this frame and hold him again. You want to be able to tell him that you love and miss him so much, that sometimes it feels like it could actually kill you and that sometimes you wish to the unfair universe it would.

And Sasha. God, you want to tell him all about Sasha.

She still loves you, you think, just as much as she did the day we left her behind. She remembers us. She remembers you. Can you believe that?

Pulling it into your chest, you wrap your arms snuggly around the frame, and all you can think of is how much you wish it were him.

You wish more than anything you could hold all of what he was—every piece that was whole and every piece that was broken, all pieces that he hated and all of which you loved. But this hard lifeless frame is the closest you will ever be to him again.

The coolness of it brings back the dreaded memory of when you held his lifeless body before you were forced to let him go forever.

He was so cold, and so damaged you barely could recognize him, a body of no life that once held the soul of your dearest friend.

He will never grow past the young age of twenty-two, and you will never be able to get past how unfair that is. How unfair life is to those who least deserve it.

Achingly slow, you pull the frame away from your chest and bring it to your face. The tracing of him begins once again.

I made it. You want to tell him. I made it out of Stohess. I kept our promise. I met so many amazing people, and I wish you were with me. You would have loved it. You would have loved them. I hope I'm making you proud.

Is mom there? What is she like? Is she just as beautiful? Just as kind? Is she what remember Please tell her I love her.

You want to sit and talk to him about everything or maybe say nothing at all. Just to breathe the same air as him again would be more than enough, but you quickly remind yourself of your reality and of your loss to try and get yourself back in touch with reality.

Your eyes flutter shut as you try to center yourself on your wobbly knees. You steady your shallow breathing and find the strength somewhere deep with you to swallow back the tears you know will soon turn into sobs.

With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears that have stained your cheeks. Pulling the back into the frame into your chest as close to your beating heart as it will go, you turn away from the wall and head toward your room.

You push the door open and step inside, where you are greeted with Pink walls, a white rug, a bare white bookcase, and all the other small things you left behind that you don't want to remember that aren't worth the mention.

Walking further in, you glance over to the left and look down at your hand, where a dent lies in the wall to the left of your closet.

The memories resurface in an instant. You are now treading on the waters of darkness that once consumed you whole.

| now playing ... moon song - phoebe bridgers |

One night, a week before you finally got up the nerve to leave your ex, he got ahold of your phone and saw that you were texting someone from your class at community college. A guy named Gavin. He was a classmate simply asking to meet for coffee so the two of you could go over the presentation you were working on, and you agreed.

It was nothing. It was an innocent interaction, but that's not how your ex saw it.

It's vivid in your mind as if it happened yesterday. You came back from using the bathroom when you saw him standing there, with your cellphone in his hand.

Although you didn't do anything wrong, guilt started to pound on the walls of your chest, making your lungs shrivel up as you tried to prepare yourself for the anger you knew was about to come.

Your ex looked at you, and you remember seeing this dark cloud of twisted wickedness gloss over his eyes. "Who is Gavin, Y/N?" His voice sounded sickly sweet asking this question. "Hm? Tell me, baby. Who is he? I won't get mad. I promise."

You knew this fake kindness well. He always fed it to you before tearing you down and then again there. You hated how familiar you were with it, how often you expected it, how much you prepared for it.

Your heart stopped beating. Dread possessing your existence.

"A classmate," you said softly, stepping toward him, praying the floor wouldn't give in. "That's all."

"Cut the bullshit." His voice shifted with his command. You watched as his shoulders grew tense, the grip on your phone tightening with rapid building anger. "You're cheating on me, aren't you?"

You were gutted. "No." You took another careful, slow step toward him. "Of course, I'm not."

"Y/N," he spat, all the muscles in his body flexing. "Are you fucking him?"

Another step. "No, I-"

"Tell me the truth, Y/N. I'm going to ask you one more time," his teeth were gritted, biting down on his building rage; anymore, you swear he would have shattered his own jaw. "Did you let him fuck you? Has he been inside what's mine?"

You had always been more property to him than a person.

He always told you that you were the world's most beautiful girl, but sometimes he would look at you, and it caused you to feel like you were the most repulsive thing ever to exist.

This was one of those times.

"He's a classmate I would never-" You couldn't even finish the sentence before the worst of him tore through.

"You little fucking liar. Do you know how embarrassing this is for me? What did I tell you about talking to other guys? Huh? Christ, Y/N. You're disgusting. You disgust me. " And in the blink of an eye, he threw your phone against the wall, next to your head, millimeters away from hitting you with strength laced with more rage than you have ever seen before.

The impact of it caused your cellphone to explode, shattering it into pieces all around your room. You had no idea something could even break like that.

You immediately fell to your knees. Your movements were frantic and shaky as you tried to pick up the pieces you knew could never be prepared.

"Get. Out." Blood was on your hands from your pathetic efforts to pick up the pieces of shattered glass. "Get away from me. You almost hit me."

"I wish I would have," he said under his breath, and he left, leaving you alone in your room, cleaning up the mess he made not only of your phone but of your heart too.

He showed up at your door two days later with a brand new phone, red roses, and apologies. "Fuck, Y/N. It was an accident. I didn't mean to. I was just so scared to lose you." His once clouded eyes were now swimming in tears that soon poured down the length of his cheeks as he stood there on your doorstep.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'll do anything. Please. Y/N. I'll change for you, I promise." He begged you. "Please. You're everything to me—my entire world. I love you. I love you so much. So so much. You gotta know I love you. You're the love of my life."

It was a mistake. He didn't mean it, right? He was angry. That's all.

He said it. He said he loved me. Then it must be true. You thought to yourself.

It has to be true.

Please let it be true.

I just want somebody to love me.

You finally got up the nerve to leave him a week after this happened, when he lost it over dirty dishes and made your growing depression an inconvenience for him. Still, one of your biggest regrets in life is that you even gave him a second of your time after this, taking this level as disrespectful yet again.

In an ideal world, you would have left right then and there. But the world was never ideal. This was your shit world, your fucked reality, and sticking up for yourself during this time in your life was nothing you knew how to do.

And not only that, but you were so damn lonely.

Your friends had moved away to college and had fallen away. Your mother was dead. Lucas was dead. Your father's drinking had gotten so bad you swore he was next.

You were empty in every way possible, and all you wanted was something to hold on to try and get this gaping hole inside you to close shut.

You recall that all-pervading feeling of your heart crushing itself from lapsed affliction. You were suffering in solitary desolation that hovered over you like a dark cloud, that weighed almost enough to make your lungs explode, full of pent-up emotions you never dared to speak of.

You knew better. You knew that even if you did come clean and tell the truth of who he really was, there wouldn't be a single person who believed you.

He was Captain of the Varsity football team. Associated Student Body President. Top of his class in high school and came from a wealthy, well-known family that owned a successful business for past generations that would soon be his for the taking.

Everyone loved him, adored him, even. In Stohess, he was everything, and you were nothing at all.

His manipulation and lies didn't start and end with you; you just got the ugly parts. He was a professional mastermind playing all the roles of the things he could never truly be.

He had everyone around him wrapped around his finger, and because of this, you knew that no one would believe you if you came clean about his jealousy and anger issues. There wasn't any doubt in your mind that if you chose to unveil who he was behind all the duplicity that he was made up of, they would look at you like you had lost your damn mind.

You tried once. You said something about it to your father. It was vague and lacking in detail. His response was, 'Well, what did you do wrong, Y/N? He isn't going to get mad at you without reason. You should really try to stop complaining so much. Maybe the problem isn't him. Maybe it's you. Have you ever considered that?'

Not even your own blood believed what you said.

So you stayed stuck. Excuse after excuse. Forgiving the unforgivable again and again, running all of the veins in your body completely dry trying to change someone who never could.

He was feeding you breadcrumbs, but as starving as you were for touch, company, or anything other than loneliness, those breadcrumbs, although scattered and constantly fluctuating, were all you craved.

Looking for the love your father never gave in all the wrong places.

So you continued opening the door to let him time and time again because maybe he would be different this time around. Maybe he would be what everyone around you was convinced he was. Maybe he would see the value in you instead of simply tolerating you.

Your life in Stohess was full of nothing but maybe's that never turned out into anything but disappointment in areas you should have known better than to be even partially hopeful in.

'Maybe he does love me. Maybe he really is sorry.'

'Maybe my father will stop drinking. Maybe my father will actually be a father.'

'Maybe Lucas will be happy again. Maybe Lucas will want to live.'

But your ex never loved you, your father never dropped drinking the way he promised, and Lucas never found his joy again. All of this proves that maybe has never been enough.

Pulling your hand away from the wall, you snap yourself into the present. Swallowing thick saliva that has coated your tongue, your attention turns to your opened bare closet, where you see a worn brown journal resting on the top shelf. This was one thing you did not want to take with you when you left.

You used this journal to document everything your ex did to you. Keeping a tally of the mistreatment, fights, and shameful moments. You had no one else to talk to about these problems, but you had to pour your feelings out somewhere, so you spilled it all on paper.

You slowly walk over and grab the journal out of its place. You saunter over to you your bare mattress and sit on the edge of it, setting the framed photo of your brother right beside you, near your leg.

You tuck your thumb under the cover of your journal and flip it open, revealing the front page, the introduction, of the life you used to live.

| now playing ... cruel world ; faye |

Dear Universe,

I have no one to write to, so I will be writing to you. I hope that's okay.

I have decided to start this journal for no one but myself, to write my thoughts, and to figure out my life that has been broken not only by the hands of the one I'm supposed to be in love with but the hands of my own as well. He hurts me more than he loves me, yet I still love him anyway. I'm writing this to try and figure out how that is. Maybe choosing to do this will help me understand the things that I can't quite figure out, or maybe it will help me build up the courage to finally leave. I hope that the future me isn't as weak as I am now, but I guess we'll see. I have never really been one to believe in myself.
This really is my last string of hope.

You continue to slowly flip through your journal—random page after random page as you read about the life you used to live.

Dear Universe,

It's my birthday today, and he didn't get me anything. I thought maybe he was kidding and that he was actually going to surprise me, but he didn't. I should have known better. I always should know better. How stupid can I be? All I wanted was a birthday card or maybe a balloon, but I didn't receive anything at all. Not an ounce me worth celebrating. When I asked him why he said he didn't see the point. We fought, and then he said he was sorry, then I let him fuck me, and I pretended to finish because I didn't know what else to do.

Now I am writing this alone on the bathroom floor, choking on tears that won't come in a body that I wish I could tear myself out of that's been cauterized by his selfish touch as he peacefully sleeps in the other room without a care in this world.
Happy birthday to me.

Dear Universe.

I can't seem to get anything right, no matter how hard I try. I want more than anything to believe that I deserve more than what is being given to me. But I am so used to being absolutely nothing that I have no comprehension of how to be anything at all.

Dear Universe,

I keep telling myself that I'm in love, that's why I'm staying. I love him, and he loves me, but if I'm honest, I don't think love is something I have known. If someone did love me as he claims to, would I even be able to recognize it? Would I know? Because if I am in love with the way I have spent the past months convincing myself I am, then why is it that I cry myself to sleep almost every night while he is lying in bed right next to me? I don't think this is the way things are supposed to be, but this is all that I have ever known.

Dear Universe,

He makes me feel so alone until he is inside of me. I am empty all the time unless I am full of him. Maybe fucking really is all that I'm good for.
But at least then, he is touching me.

Dear Universe,

"You know something, baby? You would look so much better if you didn't butcher your thighs the way you do. It's a huge turn-off for me to look at while I'm on top of you. If you're going to do it, at least do it in a place, I'm not forced to see."

He has said many horrible things to me, but I think this might be the worst of all. And yet, I ended up apologizing for taking my sadness out on myself because there is nowhere else for my sadness to go. "I'll do better." I said, "I'll be better." But that's a lie. I don't know what better is. All I've been doing for these past months is trying my best, and I fall short every single time. It's pathetic that I apologized, this much I know, but I would rather be pathetic than feel my heart crack apart at his hands trying to put up a fight I know that I can never win. It's not like it matters, though. I'm always apologizing, but I never know what for.

I just want to know when I will be enough for someone. For anyone. For myself.

Dear Universe,

I'm so exhausted, and I don't know how much more I can take. I'm walking on eggshells every day of my life. I'm scared to move, to talk, to even breathe. I want the fights to stop. I want him to stop. I want it all to stop. How did I get here, and how the hell do I get out?

Dear Universe,

I am so tired of hurting.
I am so tired of feeling.
I want to be with my mom.
I want to be with Lucas.
I want to see them again.
I need to see them again.
I want to die so badly.
I don't want to exist anymore.

Dear Universe,

I tried to leave him today. He told me
to go ahead and then proceeded to say that no one would love someone as used up like me. Maybe he is right. I am used up not just by him but by the rest of the world too. Who could ever love someone like me? I hate him, I hate what my life has become, but none of that even comes remotely close to how much I hate myself.

Dear Universe,

Today, while he was out with his friends, I called the suicide hotline.

I was thinking about killing myself. I needed someone's company because I didn't have anyone else. And I knew since this was their job, that I wouldn't be an inconvenience to them if I talked the way I am to everyone else.

They told me that there were people in my life that loved me, that people wanted me around, but I couldn't think of a single soul who does. Not one person came up who would miss me if I was gone. Would my disappearance go unnoticed? I think that it would. Because I firmly believe that my existence is nothing but a mistake the universe accidentally made, so what would it matter if I do away with myself when it so clearly wants to be rid of me?

The only reason I'm here now is because I can't stop thinking of Lucas and how disappointed he would be in me if I went, never achieving our promise, and for meeting him in the afterlife so soon after he arrived.

Lucas always thought I was stronger than he was, but as I'm sitting here writing this with tears, I can no longer stop. I'm not so sure if that's true. I believe my strength stemmed from him, and now that he's gone, my weaknesses are floating up to the surface, and I can't tell if it's making me feel more embarrassed or more ashamed.

But I don't want to disappoint him. I will do anything before I allow myself to do that. Because if there is any chance he's watching over me, if there is any chance he can see me, I want him to be able to witness a little sister he can be proud of.
So, I'm here holding on, deciding to try for another day even though this isn't what I want.

I think it might be time that I find the strength Lucas always told me I had and use it to try and become the person he died believing I was.

I took some melatonin, so I'm going to try and sleep now. I will try to live again tomorrow.
Not just for Lucas, but for myself too.

Dear Universe,

I left him today.
I am finally free.
Lucas, are you proud of me?

Your stomach painfully turns around itself as you look back at how you used to give love and what you received, deeming it as love in return.

You knew he was mistreating you. It might have been a secret to everyone else, but it wasn't to you. You were well aware of his flawed ways, But you accepted anyways, allowing it to occur again and again because at least he was treating you at all.

If you fucked him better. If you were prettier. If you were thinner. If you let him have his way with you. If you did more things for him. If you listened to his demands without questioning the morality behind his requests. That would make him love you, right?

You were always trying to earn the love of others, working yourself dry and yet somehow ending up with less than what you started with.

A continuous loop. A mousetrap. An addiction nearly impossible to pull yourself out of, but thankfully, you found your worth, your strength, took it, and ran as fast as you could.

You always felt so weak, tolerating what you did, but sitting here, you realize that all you were was a lost girl searching for a place to belong, trying to mend your heart in areas it had run cold by the hands of those who never deserved the love you offered out so pure and selflessly.

"Y/N." You hear Jean's voice to your right, pulling you out of your head. "Are you alright?"

You close your journal and lock the tab, securing your secrets inside. You set it on the center of your lap, your hands resting on top of it. "Yeah, fine."

His eyebrows furrow as his arms cross. "Y/N."

He sounds unconvinced. You sigh softly, "I thought reading an old journal I used to write in was a good idea," you admit. "Pretty bad call on my part."

He glances down at it set on your lap. He pauses for a moment and then says, "Burn that shit."

Your fingers curl around the edge of the journal. "What?"

"Burn that shit," Jean says again, looking back up at you. "Whatever is in there isn't anything that deserves to consume your life anymore."

Your stomach drops because you know he's right.

"Yeah. I probably should." Your thumbs trace the cover. "I want to."

"Bring it with you, then." He falters momentarily, sinking his teeth into the skin of his cheek. "I have one of those that I need to trash too. We can get rid of the bad shit together."

Your heart lifts back up into your chest. "Okay," you mutter as you stand to your feet, grabbing the journal and frame.

"That's my verity, by the way," Jean tells you, arms dropping to his side, "tell anyone I have a fucking journal, and I'll have to kill you."

"Secrets safe. We keep each other's verities, remember?" you smile at him as you walk over towards him. "What did Connie want? Anything important?"

He leans his left shoulder against the door frame. "He wanted to see if I wanted to hang out with him and Eren tonight."

"Sounds fun," you press your lips together a breathe through your nose. "You gonna go?"

"Depends on what time we get back to Trost," he responds. "but yeah. Probably."

You smile. "Good. I'm sorry about dragging you all the way out here. I still feel bad about it."

"Don't," Jean shakes his head. "You didn't drag me here. I'm here because I want to be."

"Thank you again," you say. "I really do appreciate it."

He shrugs. "it's the least I could do for you saving my ass with anatomy."

"Attempting to save your ass," you correct. "Depends how hard you decide to try with the stuff I'm trying to teach you."

"I'll try to draw less next time," he says.

"Good," you look around your room again, bad feelings still simmering inside you. "You know, I really wish we were meeting my dad somewhere other than here. I hate being back in Stohess in general, but I hate being back at this house a lot more."

"Then tell him to meet you somewhere else." Jean pushes his weight away from the door frame. "Don't do shit you're not comfortable with for the sake of other people, Y/N, especially when you know that they wouldn't do the same for you."

You let out a sigh. How does he always know what you need to hear? "You're right. I guess there are still some shitty habits I'm trying to break."

"Nah. I get it," he says lowly, "I have some of those too."

"We all have to start somewhere," You pull your phone and text your father to meet you at Carpino's Italian Restaurant. He texts back minutes late with a short sure.

You stuff your phone back into your pocket, "Alright, he agreed. We can head there now," You tell him as you adjust your photo of Lucas in your hands. "We're still gonna be a little early, though."

"Alright," He gestured to the frame held up to your chest. "What's the photo?"

You pull it away from your chest and slowly hold it out to him for him to see, but you don't say anything.

He takes it and studies it for a little. "Is this your..." you nod before he can say the rest. He hums in understanding, still studying the face of your brother. "You look like him." He says, holding the photo back to you. "Good-looking guy."

"He really was," you give a small smile. "Since you say we look like each other, does that mean you think I'm good-looking too?" you say, trying to make light of a topic that hurts you so much.

"You have a bad habit of asking me things you know I'll never answer," he says, shaking his head, eyes still down at the photo. "Where did you find this photo of him? It's a good one."

"It was hanging on the wall in the hallway," you say, "To be honest, before I moved, I was gonna take it with me, but some stuff happened, and I had to leave without it."

"Well, you're here, might as well steal it now," Jean says, handing you back the frame.

"Exactly," You chuckle. "Let's go." You step out of your room, holding your journal and picture of Lucas in hand, and Jean follows directly after, and the two of you head downstairs, leaving your house on Canary Street behind.

After a ten-minute drive, you arrive at the restaurant, a two-story brick building lined with bulb string lights at the entrance. The parking lot is full, so he finds a spot on a side street a couple of blocks down. He parks the car, and the two of you get out and begin to walk on the side toward the restaurant.

Suddenly, you feel Jean's hand on your lower back, moving you to the inside of the sidewalk and bringing his body nearest to the road.

You look up at him, eyes slightly widened by his gesture. Jean's hand falls away from the small of your back. "Just in case you feel like pushing me into oncoming traffic."

"Thanks." Your chest shakes with laughter. "You just made my life so much easier."

He shakes his head, expecting an response like that to come from you. "How are you feeling?"

Your face twists. "Honestly, like shit. It's a good thing this place has a bar, and I have the fake Connie made me. I haven't even seen my dad yet, and I already need a drink just thinking about being in the same place as him."

Jean laughs lowly, walking in step with you. "You honestly think that shitty fake is gonna work here?" he spins his keys around his finger before stuffing them into his pocket.

You smile at him. "We'll see now, won't we?"

The two of you head inside the restaurant, and you immediately walk into the bar located to the left and take on the empty seat all the way to the left of the restaurant. Jean sits beside you with a cocky smirk plaster on his lips.

You raise an eyebrow. "What are you looking at me like that for?"

"Nothing," His smirk stays, his eyes shifting quickly across your face. "I just wanna see if you can actually pull this shit off."

You glance at the bartender, who is making his way over to you, before looking at Jean with a confident smile plastered on your face. "Watch and learn, Jean."

"Evening. My name is Kenny. What can I get for you today, little lady," the bartender is standing in front of you, forearms resting on the counter, and leans forward slightly.

He has blue-grey eyes, facial hair, and a black mutter underneath the black hat he's wearing.

"Good Evening, Kenny. I'm doing quite well." You flash a smile. "Can I please get a vodka cran?"

He studies you for a second, his smile never fading. "I hate to do this, miss, but I'm gotta ask for your ID. Then I'll get you whatever that little heart of yours desires."

You nod your head. "Oh, of course, no problem at all." You dig into your purse and grab the fake ID Connie made you. You glance down at it and realize how genuinely shitty it is, but it's too late now. You just have to go with it. "Here you go," you hand it to him.

Kenny takes the ID from your hand. He looks at it, back at you, and the ID again. He's quiet for a few seconds, then, meeting your eyes once again, he says. "Alright, little lady. Vodka cran, right up." He turns to look at Jean, and Kenny's smile fades into nothing. "What about you? You want anything?"

Jean shakes his head. "I'm good, but I'll pay for her drink.," he says, sliding Kenny his credit card. Kenny gives him a sharp nod and walks away to make your drink.

You open your mouth to say something about him paying, but you hear Jean begin to laugh. You turn to look at him to see him shaking his head. "What? Why the hell are you laughing? It worked."

"Come on, Y/N," Jean says, nudging you with his knee. "He didn't believe that shit for a second."

Your head tiles to the side as you stuff your ID back into your purse. "No? Why is he getting me a drink then?"

He gives you a shrug. "Probably because he thinks you're attractive."

"Are you pulling that shit out of your ass right now" you laugh. "Come on, Jean, be real."

"Believe me, Y/N," Jean says, shaking his head. "He definitely knows that shit show of a fake ID Connie made for you isn't real."

You scoff, "If that's the case, then do you think I should flirt with him and shoot my shot, or is my fake boyfriend gonna get jealous?" You jab, tapping his leg with your knee.

His eyes begin to narrow. "Depends. Are we starting this fake dating act now because that would be two completely different answers."

You drum your fingers on the wooden bar. "Tell me. What are your two answers then, Jean-Boy?"

"Well, if I'm not your fake boyfriend at this exact moment, then I would say do whatever the hell you want," he shrugs. "I don't care."

"And what would your other answer be?" You ask, smoothing the fabric of your dress out.

"If you are my girl," he pauses briefly, eyes searching yours, then sharply says, "then don't."

"No?" Your eyebrows raise, eyes remaining focused on his face. "Why not?"

"Because." Jean leans forward slowly, deepening the eye contact he's holding with you. "What's mine... is mine." His voice has now turned into a warning, so sharp and possessive that it sends electricity directly down your spine, reaching all the way down to your tailbone.

You try not to focus on the heat building inside of your stomach. You swallow hard and smile on your face, not reacting to what you're secretly feeling. "Careful there, Jean," you warn sweetly, "you're almost making it seem like you actually want me."

"It's all pretend, love. I don't want you. I told you before I would never fall for you." Lifting a hand, he brings his it to the back of your head and runs the tail end of your yellow bow through your fingers. "I'm just really fucking good at playing the part."

Resting your elbow on the bar's surface, you place your chin into your palm. "And you know what I'm really fucking good at... love?" You emphasize the last words mimicking him.

Jean runs and swipes his tongue across his lips, the slight dampness of them showing ever so slightly under the dark overhead bar light, his hand dropping away from you down into his lap. "What's that?"

You give him a tempting smile ignited with confidence, "Making men fall for me when they swear they wouldn't."

Jean offers you a smile of his own; he's allowing them to come more naturally now. "Yeah? If you're so sure of yourself, how long do you think until I crack?"

"Honestly?" You pause for a second as you lean in a little bit closer, lining your mouth up to his ear.  "I think you already have," you whisper. You swear you can almost feel his body twitch as you pull away from him and fall back into the barstool.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Kenny returns with your drink and Jean's credit card. "Here you are, doll."

"Of course. Anything for a pretty lady like you," Kenny assures, "Let me know if there is anything else I can get for you, alright?" He that's his hat down toward you before walking away to take care of the other customers.

You look over to Jean as you squeeze the lime into your drink. "You didn't have to pay for me."

"I know," he says, putting his credit card away. "I wanted to."

"Thank you," As you take several large sips of your perfectly made drink, your phone vibrates against the wood of the counter, lighting up.

You look at the notification to see that your father has texted you and that he is here and has gotten a table on the right side of the restaurant near the back.

You let out a huff of dread, taking a few more sips of your drink, forcing yourself to finish it before getting up. You can already feel your anxiety building.

"My dads here." Your draw your attention away from your phone and bring it to Jean. "Look, I'm going, to be honest right now and tell you that I don't know how this conversation is going to go. There will probably be personal things said, and I don't know..." you trail off, falling into nothing, not knowing how to bring your words across.

"I'm here for support, not to intrude and put my nose in your business. With the mouth you have on you, I'm sure you'll be able to handle whatever it is he wants to talk to you about. If there's something you don't want me to hear, just give me a signal, and I'll excuse myself to the restroom, so you don't have to worry about me." Jean suggests to you. "Sound good?"

You nod. "What should the signal be?"

There are a few seconds of silence as he ponders, then he says, "Squeeze my thigh three times under the table, and I'll go."

"Easy enough." You finish the last of your drink and push it back across the wooded bar before swiveling the barstool and standing. Jean follows your lead, and the two of you walk through the other side of the restaurant toward the back.

Turning the corner, you see your father sitting at the table furthest to the right. Your anxiety skyrockets as you slow your step to a complete halt. You grab onto Jean's shirt to stop his movement too.

Jean pauses and turns. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" Looking down at you, you can tell that his eyes are full of concern.

"Hold my hand," you whisper to him as your hand falls from his shirt and you offer out your palm.

Jean's body goes stiff, eyes widening before shifting to look at your hand. "What?"

"You said you'll help me make my dad believe we are together, right? Then we gotta make this shit believable." You anxiously drag your fingers across the back of his hand. "Hold my hand."

He pauses for a second; you swear he looks almost nervous. Blinking away his emotions, before you can get any clear read on them, he replaces them with an irritated groan. "Jesus. Fine, Y/N."

Jean's fingers brush against the back of your hand and slowly drag themselves across your skin to meet your palm. "Since you're my girl, you can have anything you want," and his fingers intertwine with yours.

You and Jean walk hand in hand over to the table. Your father rises from his seat when he sees the two of you coming towards him.

"Ah, Y/N. There you are." Your father's arms open, signaling that he wants you to fall into his embrace. "It's good to see you again."

He looks like when you left him, but less intimidating.

You grew up thinking he held vigor that was of the gods, that since he was your father, it was his job to hold power and yours to stay small. But looking at him now, you can see how powerless he truly is.

You take a step away from him, fingers still intertwined with Jean's. "Keith."

Your father's face immediately drops, the muscles of his face twisting with disappointment. "Oh. I see." he begins, arms dropping by his side. "So we are using my name now, are we?"

"Suits you better than the name you can't live up to, don't you think?" you reply, face tense with irritation you can already feel crawling around inside you.

Your father's eye twitches but doesn't say anything about your insult. You can tell he's trying to save face. He turns his head turns to meet Jean. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

Jean glances briefly at you, then back over at your father. He sticks out his hand for him to shake as his greeting. "Jean Kirstein, sir," he greets. "Y/N's boyfriend."

Your father's face alters into what looks like could be disappointment. "Boyfriend, huh?" Keith says, shaking Jean's hand in return. "I gotta say, I sure wasn't expecting this." His hand drops, and he takes a seat. "How's that going for you? I know Y/N can be quite a lot to handle sometimes."

You feel your insides turn. Standing here, it's taking so much out of you not to curl up and hide within yourself the way you used to, but it's even much when he says things like that, and his words bury themselves under your skin, making you burn.

Jean drags his thumb across your hand, reminding you of his presence of support before letting go. He pulls the chair out for you to take your seat, and you kindly accept.

"It's going great," Jean says as he pushes your chair in and takes the empty chair next to you, "Amazing, actually. I'm not sure what you mean by her being a lot to handle because I can genuinely tell you that Y/N is the best person I've ever met."

You know it's all an act; however, you can't help but be a little bit warmed by Jean's words.

"Ah. Well. That's great to hear." Your father sits himself down in the chair across from you. "How have you been, Y/N? How's school? Still attending, I hope?"

Who is this man sitting across from you at the table right now? His words aren't slurred, and he doesn't smell like alcohol. His standard silver flask that he took everywhere like it was a part of him isn't anywhere in sight.

Has he stopped drinking? Is he actually sober?

Your mind is running a mile a minute, around and around with many unanswered questions. "I'm doing great. School's great," you tell him with confidence.

Your father's attention moves over to Jean. "And what about you, Jean? Do you attend college as well? Or are you working?"

Jean nods. "I'm currently in school, sir."

"Good. That's good." Your father scratches at his face. "And what is it that you're studying?"

"Art," Jean presses his back into the top of the chair. "I'm an art major."

"I see," Your father's lips press together tightly as his hand falls down into his lap. "Not much money in that field, is there?"

You scoff at his audacity. "That's bold to say because you blow all of yours."

"You're right, there isn't," Jean admits calmly, like this comment he has heard many times before. "But I'm not choosing to go into it for money. It's something that I'm passionate about, so I figured it would be better to do what I like rather than being stuck doing something I hate just because it makes more of an income."

"I see. And are you good at what you do?" Your father asks, furthering small talk.

Jean shrugs his right shoulder. "I'm alright."

"He's better than alright," you say, voicing your opinion. "Jean is really talented."

Jean turns his head to look in your direction. "Thank you," he whispers, and you nod kindly.

"I apologize for my previous comment," your father says somewhat remorsefully. "I was merely voicing my concern. I need to know that my daughter is with someone who can take care of her. I hope you can understand that."

Fucking hypocrite.

Before Jean can speak, you do. "I don't need a man to take care of me," you sharply say, causing your father's focus to shift from Jean over to you. "I am fully capable of taking care of myself."

"That's true. It honestly seems like you're sort of underestimating her." Jean runs a nervous hand through his mullet. "Your daughter is a good girl with her head in straight. She definitely isn't someone who needs to be taken care of."

Your father blinks slowly; you can't quite read his face. "You talk as if you know her well."

"Better than you do," You mutter as you adjust in your seat, nearing a little more toward Jean. "Besides, since when do you care about whether I'm being taken care of or not?"

"I always have," your father is making an argument as weak as possible. "Don't tell me that you don't think that."

He can't actually be serious.

An abrupt sound leaves your throat. "Yeah? Then why didn't you ever take care of me?"

Your father heaves us a heavy sigh. "I tried."

"Shit job," you mumble, palms running down the fabric of your dress under the table-driven by anxiousness and growing irritation.

Your father starts to say something else, but before you can make out any of it, the waitress comes to take your order.

"I'll have the spaghetti," your father says, looking down at the menu. "and a Diet Coke ."

"That's surprising," you hiss under your breath. "I'm not getting anything, thank you," you say, handing the menu to the waitress and giving her a small smile.

She nods, eyes falling on Jean. "and you?"

He shakes his head, handing the menu to her. "Just a water for me." She nods and collects his menu before parting from the table.

"Neither of you want anything? Are you sure?" Your father asks, shifting in his seat. "It's on me."

"I'm not hungry," you claim. Just the thought of food right now makes you sick, considering the amount of unsettledness pooling inside you.

"I'm fine, sir," Jean says, voice cool and collected.

"Suit yourself," your father says with a heavy shrug. "So Jean, how about you tell me more about you? I have to say. I wasn't expecting Y/N to have a boyfriend so soon after-"

"Can we please quit the small talk?" You interrupt him, knowing where he was going with that sentence. "Why did you have me come here? What did you need to talk to me about with Lucas?"

Your father clears his throat. drumming his thumbs on the table, he lets out one long breath. "I lied to you, Y/N."

Your eyes widen. "Lied to me?"

Don't tell me —

"I lied," your father repeats, "There isn't anything about Lucas."

As soon as those words fall from his chapped lips, immense pressure builds in your chest, causing every muscle in your body to tense up, your right knee bouncing with anxiety.

Immediately, you feel Jean reach over and set his hand on top of your knee right under where the fabric of your dress ends so you can feel him burning in you. He lightly drags his thumb across the skin, causing your movement to be guided to a halt slowly.

It's evident that this is Jean's small gesture of comfort, and you're so grateful for it right now.

You should have known this was a trap. Your father knows how you are when it comes to your brother. He wanted you to come running, and that's precisely what you did. Finding your weak spot and using it against you to get what he wanted, the way he has for years, and you feel for it once again.

You swear you've changed and let go of who you used to be, but this makes you second guess everything you were beginning to become confident in.

Still the same on a spinless little girl who never had any nerve.

Don't shrivel up now, Y/N.  You internally tell yourself. You stand your ground in Paradis; you can stand it here in Stohess too.

Your stomach twists in bitterness, causing you pain, and your teeth grit with so much pressure they almost shift out of place. "Oh my God." You release your teeth before almost biting through them completely. "You really are a fucking piece of shit."

Keith's face remains scarily still, but his shoulders have tensed up. "Y/N, listen to me," he begins to say, but you cut him off before he can say anything else.

"No," you say sharply. "Screw you. I always knew you were a messed up, but Jesus Christ." Your left fist is now clenched into a ball, your fingernails digging deep into your palm, almost enough to puncture your skin, but you don't care.

Your father's head drops a level, and he shakes it out. "I know. It was wrong of me to do."

Your jaw falls open. "Wrong? You used my dead brother's name to get me here, and that's what you have to say? That it was wrong? What in the hell is wrong with you?"

He runs a hand down the length of his face. "I needed to talk to you about a couple of things."

"And you couldn't have just said that?" You seethe as your heartbeat and pulse quickly rise to an unhealthy rate. "You had to go as far as using Lucas? Your own son? Can't you just let him rest?"

"I knew if I did that, if I told you I wanted to talk to you, then you wouldn't come here," he replies, trying to justify his reasoning pathetically.

"And for good reason," you spit back. "I honestly don't know who you think you are, but you don't get to use your tricks on me to try and manipulate me anymore. You have done that for as long as I can remember, and I won't stand for it now."

Your father's lips part, and he begins to say something when the waitress comes and brings the drinks. She gives one to each of you while letting your father know his food will be out soon before parting again.

Your father clears his throat and starts again. "I should have never used Lucas's name, and I apologize for deciding to do so."

Hearing your father speak your brother's name makes you feel like you could explode, with either rage, sadness, or maybe a mixture of both. You're feeling a little too much of everything right now.

"Don't." you retort. "Don't you dare say his name to me again. If you want to talk to me, then talk, but keep my brother's name out of your mouth."

He looks at your dumbfounded mouth, slightly agape. You can tell he isn't a fan of you sticking up for yourself like this buts swallowing his thoughts since Jean is sitting here and wants to play the good father act.

You wait for a few seconds, but he doesn't say a word, only causing your irritation to spiral. "Talk, Keith, or I'm leaving."

He inhales in deeply through his nose and breathes it out slowly. "I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to tell you that I've changed."

You feel like you could almost choke on his audacity. Jean's touch on your knee is the only thing keeping you centered right now. "You had a sudden change of heart or what?"

"I found God," he claims, folding his hands on top of the table. "And he is making me a better man."

You laugh bitterly. "And how many times have you found this God of yours before?"

"I know, Y/N. Trust me, I do, but I mean it this time. Nothing makes me sadder than thinking about how I've failed you as a father." He says to you in a convincing tone. "I want to start over and make a clean slate."

"A clean slate? You're actually serious?" Your blood is boiling now. You're so fucking pissed. It's taking everything in you to not just over this table right now.

"Yes," your father nods slowly. "I am. I'm currently in A.A., and the step I'm on is making amends with those I've hurt. I know I wasn't the best father. I know I have done things to hurt you, things that I will never be able to take back, but you have to understand that I truly am sorry."

You've heard this so many times before. He always does this after he gets out of rehab. He tells you that he's changed, that he's better, that he won't take a sip of alcohol again, but history always ends up repeating itself.

But Even if he was being honest this time about getting better, that won't ever take back the things he has done. That damage is irreversible.

"Okay." You blink slowly as the feelings of hurt zap through your skull. "But I don't forgive you."

"Y/N, damn it, hear me out," Keith's face alternates before your eyes. He is now looking at you with something he spent years looking at you with; complete and utter disappointment with an almost missable hint of disgust.

It seems like he was relying on the thought of you accepting his pathetic apologies with your forgiving heart that always tried to find the best in others.

But in your father, you have learned the hard way that there is no best. There is only worse and worst.

He has no idea who you've become.

You get a grip on yourself, not letting yourself give. You take a deep breath fighting to keep your voice level, praying it won't betray you and break in the anger you're drowning in. "No. Because I have heard this so many times before, and nothing ever changes."

He drags out one long blink, his mouth falling open just for him to clamp it shut.

The waitress brings your father his food putting a small barrier in your conversation.

Once she parts from your table, you continue. "Do you know how many times I believed you before just because I wanted to get my dad back? The one who actually loved me before mom passed away," your hands anxiously coming together at the center of your lap, your thumbs rubbing against each other the way they always do. "I always found it in my heart to forgive you, even when you didn't ask for it just because of how badly I wanted to be a family again, but you ended up choosing the same path every damn time, not caring that you were continuously leaving Lucas and me to fend for ourselves—saying horrible things. Doing horrible. Things a father should never do."

"I was drunk, Y/N," your father says, the tone of his voice shifting into defensiveness. "You have to understand that. I made mistakes. I know, but most of the time, I didn't know what I was saying or doing. I couldn't tell right from left even if you told me."

"That's exactly the point I'm trying to make. You chose alcohol over you kids, over and over again." you let out a shaky sigh, sadness, and rage traveling through the blood of your veins. "You aren't my responsibility, and I've cared for you way more than I ever should have. I'm not allowing myself to do that anymore."

You can almost feel Jean's breathing going heavy beside you. And you know he's trying so hard to bite his tongue to sit and let you handle this. It's almost like you can feel this sense of protection radiating off of him, but he remains quiet, and you're thankful for that.

His presence is all the support you could need.

"I know I'm not your responsibility. I never was, but my poor decisions made it out that way, which is why I want to make things right between us," Your father isn't giving up; he is fighting to make some sort of leeway with you.

"With how many fucked up things you've done, you are going to sit there and look at me and act like there is a way for us to start over?" You read over and rest your hand on Jean's thigh. Under the table, you squeeze it three times, warning him.

You're grateful for this prearranged agreement the two of you made because you are about to speak about parts of your life you don't want him to see.

Jean catches on and excuses himself to the restroom, but before he gets ruses from his chair, he leans over and kisses you on top of your forehead, light and quick. You know he's just trying to pull off this fake dating ordeal, but the action of it causes your brain to pound heavily against your skull.

Once Jean is out of sight, your father continues. "I said that I have made mistakes, Y/N. I don't need you to tell me that. I get it. I understand. I know." Although Keith is sitting surprisingly still, with the creases on his face, you can still tell the irritation building within him as he witnesses his daughter having all the confidence he spent years trying to tear down.

This only adds fuel to your fire.

You let out a laugh. It comes so bitterly you can taste it, making your tongue curl. "You don't understand. You have no fucking clue. You don't get to sit in front of me and act like you have any idea how the things you have done have affected me." You pause for a second and shake your head.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before he even gets the chance. "Tell me, Dad. Do you remember when you got wasted and burned all of Mom's pictures in front of Lucas and me and told us that we didn't deserve to look at her? You didn't want us to remember her face because of how disappointed she would be in us? That she would be embarrassed to have us as her children if she knew how we were turning out?"

Your father looks at you unblinking as you confront him about things you never have before. "Don't you think that haunts me? Knowing what I did? Those were of my wife."

"And they were of my mother." You can feel tears pricking your eyes as you recall your worst memories.

Not here. Not now. He is the last person on this earth to see me weak.

You blink away the thick building tears and brace yourself for the impact you know the words you are about to say are going to cause on your heart. You lower your voice a couple of levels so it won't carry to other customers. "Do you remember when Lucas slit his wrist when you were in the other room, and I came home from school to find him lying in a pool of his own blood? It wasn't you. It wasn't this God of yours. It was ME."

Your throat is on fire as you talk. It's screaming at you to break, but you refuse. You push on, fingers digging into the skin of your knees under the tabletop. "I was the one who had to drive him to the hospital before I even had my license because you were passed out on the couch drunk, for fucks sake!" You feel like you could burn straight to the ground; all of you have caught aflame. "If I hadn't come home, Lucas would have died right there on the bathroom tile while you were sleeping with a bottle of fucking whisky in your hand, and you want to sit there and talk to me about a clean slate."

"I know. I'm sorry," is all your father says.

It's pathetic and lacking in any meaning, just like it has all the times before.

You ignore him and continue spitting out the words you have kept in for far too long. Now they won't stop. "I was the one who had to go and identify Lucas's body after I got the call. I was the one who had to plan the funeral. I was the one to make all the arrangements. Where the hell were you?"

"At a bar drunk," he says through a tight jaw. "I was drunk."

Is he getting angry or growing in regret? You can't quite tell.

"That's right," you say firmly, jaw ticked. "You were too drunk to help your son while he was alive and too drunk to help him after he died. Do you know how fucked up that is?"

"Yes," he admits half-heartedly. "And I will have to live with that regret for the rest of my life."

The amount of pain you're in right now is insurmountable. Everything is coming up that you've hidden from yourself and the rest of the world, and it hurts just as much as it did the day it happened.

There are some times in this world that time can't take rawness away from.

You swallow, feeling the burn as it leaks into your heart. "I have spent years cleaning up everyone's messes, but nothing compares to the ones I have had to clean up that you left behind." You tell him, fighting with all you have to keep steady. "I was thirteen when I cleaned vomit off of you and had to pick you up off the floor. THIRTEEN. And now you want to come to me and try to make amends? Do you know how messed up it is that you're doing this? Why are you doing this? Why did you reach out to me? I don't understand."

Your father looks at you and lets out a heavy sigh. "Because I love you, Y/N."

Does he love you? Or is he using it to try and get himself under your skin because he knows how desperate you've always been for fatherly love.

You stare at him for a couple of seconds, trying to give your aching throat time to release itself. It feels like lava traveling down your esophagus. "No, you don't. You don't love me."

His already tense shoulders grow even tenser. He lets out a breath. "I love y-"

You interrupt with a sharp tone, your patience wearing extremely thin. "Don't tell me you love me again. You lost the meaning of love when mom died."

He shakes his head slowly a couple of times. "That's not true. I love you. I always have. And because of this, as your father, I wanted to tell you that I don't believe moving away from here was a good call. I want to suggest that you move back to Stohess. I think it would be best for you."

There it is—his truth.

He wants you back in arms reach, back to take advantage of, around to run dry until you are nothing. All this bullshit about him getting sober is nothing but a scheme.

"Are you actually serious?" Your teeth grind. "How stupid do you think I am? The last time I saw you, you blamed me for Lucas's death and hit me for trying to stand up for him and myself."

"Y/N." Your father's teeth grind. "I don't blame you for that. His death was an accident. You know that. You also know I've never been good at handling my grief. I'm sorry for my actions and for the things I said to you that night, but I was drunk, and I was angry."

"Keep your apologies and your excuses." Your eyes fall into your lap, "nothing can ever justify the things you've put me through."

Before your father can speak, Jean returns from the restroom, and he slips back into his seat next to you.

Noticing the nervous habit of your hands, Jean immediately slips his hand between yours without saying a word. His hand acting as a barrier as he pulls your hands apart and brings the right one toward him, intertwining his fingers with yours. He leans his body over, "You okay?" he whispers, voice raised only enough for you to hear.

You nod softly as you breathe out. You breathe out a small sigh of relief at the feeling as the conversation between you and your father continues to rise. Jean squeezes your hand, and keeps hold of it as he straightens his body back out.

You open your mouth to say something in response to your father, but he continues before you get a word out.

"I understand that the things I've done aren't reversible, but I still want you to consider moving back," your father says again, not letting up. "I'm getting better now. We can be a family. Me and you. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

God. You want to throw up. "Don't talk to me about family. Where do you get off thinking you have any right to sit there and tell me what you think is best for me?"

"Because how do you think it made me feel getting out of rehab and coming to find that my daughter moved away from me to a place that I don't know without an ounce of support," your father claims, trying to make you feel guilty for your parting.

"You're wrong," Jean says firmly. You can tell this conversation is rubbing him the wrong way, too, even though he's trying so hard not to overstep. "She has support."

Keith blinks in Jean's direction and looks at him for a second with clear irritation. He then turns back to you, ignoring Jean's words to him. "As your father, I'm extremely worried for you, Y/N, and I'm not sure moving away is what's best for you, especially when no one knows where you are."

"Now that both your kids are gone, now you want to play the father of the year?" Your heart and stomach twist as you bitter another bitter laugh. "I don't need or want you to worry about me. I'm doing just fine. Go back to it, giving a shit about me. It's what you do best."

Your father shakes his head. "You might think you're fine, Y/N, but you know you have always been a bit weaker. I just don't think you have the ability to take care of yourself, even though you might think you do," he pauses and says, "And I think you should know I'm not the only one who thinks that either. Other people are concerned for you too."

"Other people?" Your forehead is creased with tension caused by anger and confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Y/N."

You hear your name spoken from behind that sends haunting chills throughout your entire body, making all of you go still.

This voice you know far too well, even without having to look. The way it settles in your bones is so icy and cold that it literally causes them to ache.

You slowly turn your head, and instantaneously your heart drops so far that you're convinced it's out of your body, beating near your feet on the cold hard floor.

There he stands towering over you. Tall and proud and everything you hate.

"Porco."

Dear universe, fuck you.

- 31,887 words
[I'm going into hibernation. Wake
me up when Jean Kirstein is real]

___

This was the most emotionally taxing and mentally challenging chapter I have written and also the most insecure / vulnerable I've felt about my writing yet lol. I hope you enjoyed and that the long wait was worth it. Until next time. <3 - aim.